Green  Trails 
and  Upland 
~  Pastures  " 

Walter  Pri chard  Eaton 


/  T/ 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


THE  IDYL  OF  TWIN  FIRES 

THE  BIRD  HOUSE  MAN 

BARN  DOORS  AND  BYWAYS 

PLAYS  AND  PLAYERS 

THE  AMERICAN  STAGE  OF  TO-DAY 

AT  THE  NEW  THEATRE  AND  OTHERS 

PEANUT,  CUB  REPORTER 

BOY  SCOUTS  OF  BERKSHIRE 

BOY  SCOUTS  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 

BOY  SCOUTS  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

BOY  SCOUTS  OF  THE  WILD  CAT  PATROL 

THE  RUNAWAY  PLACE  (With  Elite  Underfill) 

THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  CHRISTMAS 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


WHOSE  HAND  FIRST  LED  ME  OUT 

AMONG  THE  FLOWERS 

AND  WHOSE  PLEA  WAS  THE  FIRST  I  HEARD 

IN  DEFENSE  OF  THE  WILD 

FOLK  OF  THE  WOODS 


2128836 


NOTE 

CERTAIN  of  the  chapters  of  this  book  have  pre- 
viously appeared  in  various  magazines,  "Upland  Pas- 
tures" in  Scribner's;  "Glacier  Park,"  "Where  Glaciers 
Feed  the  Apple  Roots,"  "The  Harvests  of  the  Wild 
Places,"  "Neighbors  of  the  Winter  Night,"  "Weather 
and  the  Sky,"  and  "Nature  and  the  Psalmist"  in  Har- 
per's; "Trees"  in  the  Century;  "The  Cohorts  of  the 
Frost,"  "Bridges,"  "Stone  WTalls,"  and  "Christmas  and 
the  WTinter  World"  in  McBride's;  and  "The  Skirmish 
Line  of  Spring,"  "Rocky  Mountain  Wild  Flowers" 
and  "Landscape  Lines  and  Gardening"  in  the  New 
Country  Life.  The  Author  gratefully  acknowledges 
his  indebtedness  to  the  editors  of  these  publications. 

W.  P.  E. 

Stockbridge,  Massachusetts 

Autumn,  1917 


CONTENTS 


Author's  Note 


PAGE 

vii 


I.  Upland  Pastures 3 

H.  The  Cohorts  of  the  Frost      .      .      .      .  21 

III.  The  Skirmish  Line  of  Spring       ...  35 

IV.  Glacier  Park 46 

V.  Where  Glaciers  Feed  the  Apple  Roots 

(Lake  Chelan) 67 

VI.  Glacier  Park  Wild  Flowers    .      .      .      .84 

VII.  The  Harvest  of  the  Wild  Places      .      .  97 

VIII.  Neighbours  of  the  Winter  Night      .      .  117 

IX.  Stone  Walls 133 

X.  Bridges        . 150 

XL  The  Little  Town  on  the  Hill      ...  168 

XII.  R.  F.  D 185 

XIII.  Weather  and  the  Sky 200 

XIV.  Old  Boats 216 

XV.  The  Land  Below  the  River  Bank     .      .  231 

XVI.  Trees 248 

XVII.  Landscape  Lines  and  Gardening      .      .  264 

XVIII.  Nature  and  the  Psalmist       ....  276 

XIX.  Christmas  and  the  Winter  WTorld    .      .  292 

ix 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Mt.  Jackson,  from  Lincoln  Pass — Glacier  Park 

Coloured  Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGB 

A  greensward  flung  like  a  mantle  over  the  tall 

shoulder  of  a  hill 8 

The  clearing  extends  up  a  steep  slope  to  meet 

the  woods 16 

A  mottled  old  sycamore  leans  out  over  the  dark  ice  32 
The  snowfield  of  Chaney  Glacier  beating  like 

surf  against  the  cliff  walls 48 

Waterfalls  dropping  from  Grinnell  Glacier  to  the 

meadow  levels 56 

From  Iceberg  Lake  magnificent  battlements  tower 

four  thousand  feet  into  the  air 64 

A  glimpse  two  thousand  feet  below  of  the  green 

water  of  Lake  Chelan   ...          ....       80 

The  pattern  of  fields  and  pastures  .  .  .  stitched 

with  stone  walls 144 

Fitted  to  their  age  and  station  were  the  covered 

bridges  of  New  England 160 

How  gracefully  the  road  swings  with  the  curves 

of  the  stream 192 

Some  naked  tree  stands  out  in  startling,  lacy 

silhouette 208 

xi 


xii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  great  oak  of  the  pastures  flings  its  outline 
against  the  cloud-race 256 

Of  all  the  .  .  .  lines  that  mountains  achieve, 
the  most  beautiful  ...  is  the  dome  .  .  272 

"Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and 

evening  to  rejoice" 280 

"All  the  beasts  of  the  forest  do  creep  forth"       .     288 
The  cold,  white  world  without,  sparkling  under 
the  frosty  stars 296 


GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 


GREEN  TRAILS  AND 
UPLAND  PASTURES 

CHAPTER  I 
UPLAND  PASTURES 

THERE  are  alluring  names  in  the  corner  of  the 
world  where  I  dwell,  such  as  the  Upper  Meadow,  Sky 
Farm,  and  High  Pasture.  Is  there  not  something 
breeze-blown  and  spacious  about  the  very  words  High 
Pasture?  You  do  not  need  a  picture  to  bring  the 
image  to  your  eye.  Your  image  will  not  in  the  least 
resemble  our  High  Pasture,  to  be  sure,  but  what  does 
that  matter?  You  will  see  a  greensward  flung  like  a 
mantle  over  the  tall  shoulder  of  a  hill,  the  blue  dome  of 
the  sky  dropping  down  behind  it,  and  to  the  ear  of  mem- 
ory will  come  the  faint,  lazy  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell.  It  is 
the  magic  of  the  words  which  matters,  not  the  realism 
of  the  image. 

Our  High  Pasture  is  on  the  southern  shoulder  of 
Rattlesnake  Hill,  and  it  is  splendidly  isolated  from  the 
lowlands  by  forest.  The  forest  marches  down  from  the 

summit  upon  it  and  stops  abruptly  with  an  edge  like  a 

s 


4       GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

tall  green  wall.  The  pasture  itself  goes  over  the 
shoulder  on  either  side  with  a  beautiful  dome-like  billow, 
and  meets  the  forest  again  climbing  up  from  the  valley. 
You  see  no  road  leading  thither.  It  is  a  lonely  clearing 
on  the  heights,  and  behind  the  sharp,  doming  line  of  its 
wave-crest  the  sky  drops  down  to  infinite  depths  of 
space.  How  far  one  could  see  if  he  climbed  there  and 
looked  over  the  crest!  How  fresh  the  wind  must  blow 
out  of  those  deep  sky  spaces,  though  here  in  the  valley 
the  summer  day  is  breathless  and  sultry!  How  tiny 
the  black-and-white  specks  of  the  Holsteins  appear, 
as  they  seem  barely  to  move,  like  lazy  flies  on  a  green 
tapestry! 

One  Autumn  not  long  ago  the  farmer  ploughed  High 
Pasture,  turning  it  from  green  to  brown,  and  when  the 
first  snow-spits  of  November  came  the  furrows  filled, 
and  suddenly  it  was  a  beautiful  zebra-skin  laid  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  hill.  Then  all  Winter  it  was  a  dome  of 
glistening  white  amid  the  reddish-gray  of  the  mountain 
forest.  But  as  Spring  came  up  the  land  it  grew  emerald 
with  oats,  and  in  lush  midsummer  we  climbed  through 
the  woods  to  reach  it,  up  the  bed  of  a  forest  brook,  and 
came  out  upon  the  lower  edge  as  upon  a  beach.  The 
waves  were  breaking  at  our  feet.  Over  the  dome-line 
above  us,  out  of  those  deep  sky  spaces  behind,  came 
the  wind,  and  swept  the  billows  down  upon  us  with  a 
rustling  murmur  as  of  some  magic,  brittle  sea. 

We  skirted  the  pasture  to  the  highest  point,  while  a 


UPLAND  PASTURES  5 

woodchuck  rushed  off  into  the  oats,  stirring  theft  tops 
like  a  fish  swimming  just  under  the  surf  ace  of  the  water; 
swallows  skimmed  the  field  like  gulls,  and  even  the 
pines  to  our  left  spoke  with  the  voice  of  the  ocean.  At 
the  crest  of  the  ridge  we  set  our  backs  to  the  forest 
wall  and  looked  out  over  the  pasture  below  us.  Ever 
the  wind  went  by  across  the  oats,  wave  after  wave  of 
emerald,  and  we  saw,  on  the  plain  beneath,  our  tidy 
village  and  the  winding  thread  of  the  river,  and  beyond 
that  another  hill  going  up  with  the  green  pastures  of 
Sky  Farm  perched  on  its  fif teen-hundred-foot  shoulder; 
and  farther  still  the  mountain  walls  like  smoky  blue 
billows  on  the  horizon.  Behind  us,  in  the  dim,  cool 
evergreens,  a  wood  thrush  sang.  A  chewink  hopped 
in  a  near-by  tree,  and  a  field  sparrow  was  busy  in  the 
oats.  How  fresh  was  the  breeze,  how  peaceful  this  airy 
spaciousness !  The  world  was  being  bathed  in  sunshine 
and  dried  by  the  wind.  We  lay  down  at  the  pasture 
edge,  and  the  waving  oats  shut  out  everything  but  the 
sky.  We  could  look  a  long  way  into  the  green  aisles 
between  the  stalks,  and  once  we  saw  a  field  mouse  pass 
across  the  end  of  a  vista,  a  prowler  in  this  pygmy  forest. 
He  made  no  sound.  There  was  no  sound  anywhere  save 
the  brittle  wave-swish  of  the  grain,  the  deep  murmur  of 
the  evergreens  behind  us,  and  the  music  of  the  birds. 

To  me  there  is  less  allurement  in  Sky  Farm,  because 
it  is  inhabited.  The  true  upland  pasture  is  isolated, 
alone.  But  yet  Sky  Farm  has  many  attractions  not 


6      GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

often  appreciated  by  the  vacation  visitors  to  our  valley, 
who  almost  invariably  exclaim:  "It  must  be  dreadfully 
cold  there  in  Winter ! "  The  road  to  this  farm  winds  up 
the  mountain  for  two  miles  through  a  wood  of  tall 
chestnut  trees,  noble  old  fellows  hung  with  bitter-sweet 
and  shading  wild  garden  borders  of  fern  and  brake.  It 
is  a  road  the  motors  never  essay,  and  last  year's  leaves 
lie  in  the  wheel  ruts  in  the  Spring,  while  in  the  Autumn 
the  squirrels  scold  at  your  intrusion.  Presently  you 
hear  a  brook  falling  down  a  ravine  to  the  left,  and  the 
road  grows  steeper,  the  thank-you-marms  more  fre- 
quent. Light  breaks  ahead,  and  you  stand  suddenly 
in  the  Sky  Farm  plum  orchard.  If  it  is  blossom  time, 
you  stand  suddenly  in  Japan,  after  two  miles  of  climbing 
through  a  New  England  forest.  But  beyond  the  plum 
orchard  is  the  unmistakable  gray  barn  and  the  unmis- 
takable small,  bare  house  of  the  New  England  hill  farm. 
A  few  steps  bring  you  to  the  dooryard.  The  road  ends 
at  the  barn  runway — the  road  ends  and  the  view  opens. 
You  look  back  over  the  forest,  mile  on  mile  to  the  hori- 
zon hills,  and,  through  the  barn  itself  and  the  smaller 
rear  door,  at  the  vacant  sky,  for  on  that  side  the  hill 
drops  sheer  away.  Behind  the  house  the  clearing  ex- 
tends a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  a  steep  slope  to  meet  the 
woods  coming  down  from  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain. Here  browse  the  cattle  which  give  the  farm 
excuse  for  being.  Their  steep  pasturage  is  sown  with 
granite  bowlders,  amid  which  they  move,  or  lie  quietly 


UPLAND  PASTURES  7 

on  gray  days  when  sky  and  rocks  are  of  a  colour.  Some- 
times they  wander  still  higher  into  the  summit  woods, 
and  as  you  make  your  way  up  toward  the  peak  of  the 
mountain  you  will  hear  their  bells  tinkling  unseen. 
From  the  doorstep  of  his  house  the  farmer  can  look 
down  upon  our  village.  On  still  Sabbath  mornings 
he  can  hear  the  call  from  the  church  steeples,  and  at 
night,  perhaps,  the  boom  of  the  hours.  Yet  he  dwells 
strangely  in  a  world  apart,  like  one  on  a  watch-tower. 
His  son,  to  be  sure,  in  fine  weather  can  reach  school  on  a 
bicycle  (at  no  little  personal  risk)  in  an  incredibly  short 
time.  But  it  is  slow  work  getting  home  again.  Once 
home  for  the  evening,  it  must  be  a  strong  temptation 
indeed  to  draw  the  inhabitants  of  this  house  down  to 
those  twinkling  lights  of  the  town.  They  look  out 
upon  our  habitations,  but  they  hear  only  the  rushing 
of  the  night  wind  over  the  mountain  or  the  muffled 
tinkle  of  a  cow-bell  as  the  herd  moves  to  a  new  pasturage 
under  the  stars.  To  such  a  farm  might  Teufelsdrockh 
have  retired. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  decide  in  what  season  of  the 
year  the  Upper  Meadow  is  at  its  best,  for  in  each  it  has 
a  shy,  elusive  charm  peculiarly  its  own.  The  Lower 
Meadow,  through  which  it  is  reached,  is  a  link  between 
one  of  the  largest  farms  and  the  extensive  swamp  which 
lies  at  the  steep  side  of  a  mountain.  This  meadow, 
or  hayfield,  is  many  acres  in  extend,  threaded  by  a  slow- 
moving,  alder-fringed  brook.  On  the  farther  side, 


8      GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

through  a  barred  gate,  a  wood-road  strikes  upward. 
It  ascends  rapidly  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
comes  out  into  an  unexpected  clearing,  a  genuine  little 
meadow  two  or  three  acres  in  extent,  pocketed  on  a 
shelf  of  the  precipitous  mountain  wall,  which  was  not 
visible  from  the  valley.  Doubtless  you  have  seen  a 
tiny  lake  with  a  wooded  mountainside  leaping  up  from 
it.  The  Upper  Meadow  is  exactly  like  such  a  lake, 
with  lush  green  grass  for  water,  grass  so  rich,  indeed, 
that  you  almost  look  for  it  to  hold  reflections.  No 
prospect  is  possible  from  the  Upper  Meadow  save  the 
view  of  the  mountain  wall  springing  beside  it.  It  is  shut 
into  the  woods.  Yet  the  steep  climb  thither,  the  silence, 
the  washed  air,  all  conspire  to  the  sense  of  height.  It 
is  a  man-made  clearing,  but  only  in  haying  time  does 
man  intrude.  It  has  all  the  artlessness  of  a  forest  glade. 
In  Spring  the  charm  of  the  Upper  Meadow  is  vir- 
ginal, not  because  of  the  trilliums  and  dog-tooth  violets 
along  its  borders,  but  because  of  the  birches  bursting 
into  leaf.  It  is  surrounded  by  woods  in  which  birches 
predominate,  and  there  are  many  birches  all  up  the 
mountain  wall.  In  the  early  season,  while  yet  the 
other  hardwoods  are  naked,  the  winter-washed  trunks 
of  the  birches  stand  out  with  startling  distinctness,  one 
great  forked  patriarch  in  particular  looking  like  a 
lightning  stab  against  the  background  of  a  pine.  Then, 
as  the  warmth  steals  into  the  soil,  the  birches  begin  to 
put  on  their  brilliant  foliage,  almost  a  Nile  green,  per- 


A  greensward  flung  like  a  mantle  over  the  tall 
shoulder  of  a  hill 


UPLAND  PASTURES  9 

haps  the  most  lively  in  our  northern  latitudes.  As  the 
sun  strikes  in  upon  them,  and  upon  the  moist,  rich 
young  grass  of  the  meadow,  they  make  a  vivid  screen 
about  this  lonely  glade,  a  screen  of  sharp  white  and 
translucent  foliage,  and  all  up  the  mountain,  amid  the 
bare,  lilac  trunks  of  the  second-growth  timber,  you 
can  see  the  birch  green  shimmering  in  the  golden  light. 
The  birches  are  never  so  virginal  as  in  their  ^bright, 
diaphanous  robes  of  Spring,  and  no  scene  for  me  has 
quite  the  delicate  beauty  of  the  Upper  Meadow  at  that 
hour. 

But  when  the  forest  foliage  has  melted  into  the  lush 
monotony  of  midsummer,  the  meadow  grass  is  high  and 
ripe,  the  thrushes  have  almost  ceased  their  woodland 
songs,  and  the  laurel  bushes  on  the  borders  of  the  clear- 
ing have  dropped  their  clustered  petals  of  pink  and 
white,  a  sound  comes  to  you  as  you  climb  through  the 
woods  which  contrasts  oddly  with  the  sylvan  stillness— 
the  hot  click-click-click  of  a  mower.  As  you  emerge  in- 
to the  Upper  Meadow  you  see  half  the  grass  lying  low, 
and  against  the  upstanding  edge,  eating  it  down,  ad- 
vances the  machine,  behind  the  strong,  willing  breasts 
of  the  brown  horses  glistening  with  sweat.  Man  has 
made  his  annual  invasion.  Under  the  shade  of  a  bush 
stands  a  brown  jug  of  barley  water.  Out  in  the  sun 
stands  the  rake,  awaiting  its  turn.  In  a  day  or  two 
the  great  wagon  will  come  and  carry  down  the  hay, 
leaving  the  meadow  once  more  to  the  birds  and  moun- 


10    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

taiii  silence  for  another  twelvemonth.  But  meanwhile 
the  willing  horses  in  their  strength,  the  measured, 
mathematical  fall  of  the  grass,  the  cicada  click  of  the 
mower,  the  occasional  shout  of  the  driver,  are  sights 
and  sounds  not  unpleasant,  and  you  lie  beneath  the 
shadows  which  creep  out  across  the  stubble,  to  look 
and  listen  all  the  drowsy  afternoon. 

To  emerge  from  the  woods  in  Autumn  into  the 
Upper  Meadow  is  like  putting  your  head  and  shoulders 
through  a  great,  gorgeous  tapestry,  from  the  dark 
underside.  The  bordering  trees,  above  the  glossy  green 
of  the  laurel  bushes,  are  in  bright  array,  and  above  you 
all  the  mountainside  is  triumphant  with  colour.  Even 
the  meadow  floor  has  reclothed  itself  in  green  after  the 
reaping,  as  if  to  be  dressed  for  this  pageantry. 

But  in  Winter,  perhaps,  our  meadow  can  be  at  its 
best,  when  the  world  wears  white  and  not  a  creature 
that  wanders  unseen  in  the  woods  but  leaves  its  track. 
In  Winter  our  Berkshire  world  becomes  everywhere 
more  simplified.  The  myriad  motors  desert  our  high- 
ways, and  the  horse  comes  into  his  own  once  more,  with 
a  jingle  of  sleighbells.  The  deserted  summer  estates, 
their  rose  bushes  clad  in  straw,  their  garden  beds  buried 
under  pine  boughs,  no  longer  impose  upon  us  an  alien 
and  more  sophisticated  order.  We  may  cut  cross-lots 
on  our  snowshoes  without  fear  of  trespass.  And  then 
it  is  that  the  Upper  Meadow  becomes  the  hermit  of  the 
pastures.  No  human  tracks  have  preceded  ours  up 


UPLAND  PASTURES  11 

the  trail.  We  come  out  into  the  mountain  clearing, 
dazzling  under  the  sun,  amid  the  hush  of  the  winter 
woods.  The  mountain  wall  goes  up  beyond  us,  bearing 
its  dark,  snow-flecked  pines  prominently  against  the 
gray  and  white  of  bare  birch  and  chestnut  trunks, 
etched  with  a  myriad  vertical  strokes  upon  the  ground- 
work of  snow.  There  is  only  the  soft,  padded  swish  of 
our  snowshoes  to  be  heard  as  we  advance  to  the  centre 
of  the  meadow.  Yet  life  has  been  here.  A  deer  has 
crossed — two  deer,  three  deer — plunging  almost  knee 
deep  in  the  snow.  Over  the  white  carpet  a  pheasant 
has  walked,  one  foot  mathematically  behind  the  other, 
and  at  this  point  something  startled  him,  for  the  tracks 
cease  abruptly.  Here  are  the  marks  on  the  snow  where 
his  long  tail  feathers  brushed  as  he  took  the  air.  Nearer 
the  edge  of  the  meadow,  where  the  glossy  laurel  fringe 
is  still  green,  a  rabbit  emerged,  hopped  out  a  way,  and 
turned  back.  And  it  will  be  strange  if  we  do  not  find 
the  track  of  a  fox,  sneaking  down  in  the  night  from  his 
hole  up  in  the  mountain  rocks  to  the  valley  farms. 
There  is  not  even  the  sign  of  mown  grass  to  speak  of 
man  in  the  clearing  now.  It  is  lonely  as  a  frozen  moun- 
tain lake,  wrapped  secure  in  the  heart  of  its  upland 
wilderness. 

In  these  softer  modern  days,  when  we  all  desire  the 
valley  warmth,  the  nervous  companionship  of  our  kind, 
the  handy  motion-picture  theatre,  many  an  upland 
pasture  is  going  back  to  wildness,  invaded  by  birch  and 


12    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

pine  upon  the  borders,  overrun  with  the  hosts  of  the 
shrubby  cinquefoil,  most  provocative  of  plants  because 
it  refuses  to  blossom  unanimously,  putting  forth  its 
yellow  flowers  a  few  at  a  time  here  and  there  on  the 
sturdy  bush.  Such  a  pasture  I  know  upon  a  hilltop 
eighteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  where  now  few 
cattle  browse,  and  seldom  enough  save  at  blueberry 
season  does  a  human  foot  pass  through  the  rotted  bars 
or  straddle  the  tumbling,  lichen-covered  stone  wall, 
where  sentinel  mulleins  guard  the  gaps.  It  is  not  easy 
now  even  to  reach  this  pasture,  for  the  old  logging  roads 
are  choked  and  the  cattle  tracks,  eroded  deep  into  the 
soil  like  dry  irrigation  ditches,  sometimes  plunge  through 
tangles  of  hemlock,  crossing  and  criss-crossing  to  reach 
little  green  lawns  where  long  ago  the  huts  of  charcoal- 
burners  stood,  and  only  at  the  very  summit  converging 
into  parallels  that  are  plain  to  follow.  Some  of  them, 
too,  will  lead  you  far  astray,  to  a  rocky  shoulder  of  the 
hill  guarded  by  cedars,  where  you  will  suddenly  view  the 
true  pasture  a  mile  away,  over  a  ravine  of  forest.  Yet 
once  you  have  reached  the  true  summit  pasture,  there 
bursts  upon  you  a  prospect  the  Lake  country  of  Eng- 
land cannot  excel;  here  the  northbound  Peabodies  rest 
in  May  to  tune  their  voices  for  their  mating  song,  here 
the  everlasting  flower  sheds  its  subtle  perfume  on  the 
upland  air,  the  sweet  fern  contends  in  fragrance,  and 
here  the  world  is  all  below  you  with  naught  above  but 
Omar's  inverted  bowl  and  a  drifting  cloud. 


UPLAND  PASTURES  13 

It  is  good  now  and  then  to  hobnob  with  the  clouds, 
to  be  intimate  with  the  sky.  "  The  world  is  too  much 
with  us"  down  below;  every  house  and  tree  is  taller 
than  we  are,  and  discourages  the  upward  glance.  But 
here  in  the  hilltop  pasture  nothing  is  higher  than  the 
vision  save  the  blue  zenith  and  the  white  flotilla  of  the 
clouds.  Climbing  over  the  tumbled  wall,  to  be  sure, 
the  grass-line  is  above  your  eye;  and  over  it,  but  not 
resting  upon  it,  is  a  great  Denali  of  a  cumulus.  It  is 
not  resting  upon  the  pasture  ridge,  because  the  imagina- 
tion senses  with  the  acuteness  of  a  stereoscope  the  great 
drop  of  space  between,  and  feels  the  thrill  of  aerial  per- 
spective. Your  feet  hasten  to  the  summit,  and,  once 
upon  it,  your  hat  comes  off,  while  the  mountain  wind 
lifts  through  your  hair  and  you  feel  yourself  at  the  apex 
and  zenith  of  the  universe.  Far  below  lie  the  blue  eyes 
of  Twin  Lakes,  and  beyond  them  rises  the  beautiful 
dome  of  the  Taconics,  ethereal  blue  in  colour,  yet  solid 
and  eternal.  Lift  your  face  ever  so  little,  and  the  green 
world  begins  to  fall  from  sight,  the  great  cloud-ships, 
sailing  in  the  summer  sky,  begin  to  be  the  one  thing 
prominent.  How  softly  they  billow  as  they  ride !  How 
exquisite  they  are  with  curve  and  shadow  and  puffs 
of  silver  light!  Even  as  you  watch,  one  sweeps  across 
the  sun,  and  trails  a  shadow  anchor  over  the  pasture, 
over  your  feet.  You  almost  hold  your  breath  as  it 
passes,  for  it  seems  in  some  subtle  way  as  if  the  cloud 
had  touched  you,  had  spoken  you  on  its  passage. 


14    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

From  this  upland  pasture  you  may  watch  "  the  golden 
light  of  afternoon"  withdraw  from  the  valleys,  like  the 
receding  waters  of  a  flood,  and  the  amethyst  shadows 
creep  up  the  eastern  hills.  You  may  watch  the  cloud- 
ships  come  to  anchor  over  the  Catskills  hi  the  west,  and 
transform  themselves  into  Himalayas,  snow-capped, 
rose-crowned.  And,  as  you  descend  at  last  through 
the  cow  paths  and  logging  roads  to  the  valley,  it  will 
be  breathless  twilight  in  the  hemlocks,  and  a  wood 
thrush  will  sing  of  the  evening  mysteries. 

But  the  upland  pasture  that  I  love  best  of  all  is  in 
Franconia,  high  above  the  little  Ham  Branch  intervale, 
on  the  forest-clad  slopes  of  Kinsman.  A  single  road 
runs  up  the  intervale,  into  a  region  of  abandoned  clear- 
ings. The  great  west  wall  of  Kinsman,  rearing  to  its 
saddle-back  twin  summits  more  than  four  thousand 
feet  aloft,  is  uncompromising  and  discourages  human 
conceit.  There  is  a  rugged  wildness  here  our  Berkshire 
land  knows  nothing  of,  and  a  tax  on  the  breath  in 
climbing  for  which  we  have  no  adequate  preparation. 
No  railroad  whistle  can  here  reach  the  ears.  Creatures 
wilder  than  deer  may  cross  this  clearing.  And  the  air 
of  it  is  filled  with  the  pungent  fragrance  of  the  northern 
balsams. 

The  way  to  this  pasture  lies  through  a  lower  pasture 
behind  the  tiny  farmhouse  by  the  road.  It  is  a  steep 
way,  past  a  running  brook  and  through  a  sugar  grove 
where  the  sugar  house  of  rough  boards  stands  sur- 


UPLAND  PASTURES  15 

rounded  by  huge  woodpiles  against  next  year's  "b'ilin' 
down."  At  the  head  of  the  grove,  after  an  acre  or 
two  more  of  clearing,  the  path  suddenly  starts  upward 
at  a  sharp  angle,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  goes  through 
a  dense  forest  of  young  spruces  and  balsams  so  dense 
that  scarce  a  leaf  of  undergrowth  is  visible  on  the  brown 
needles.  It  emerges  from  the  evergreens  as  suddenly 
as  it  entered  them,  and  you  find  yourself  on  a  plateau 
pasture  five  or  six  acres  in  extent,  once  regular  in  shape 
but  now  broken  into  tiny  bays  and  inlets  all  along  the 
edges  by  the  invasion  of  the  forest,  by  jetties  and  capes 
of  Christmas  trees.  And  out  beyond  each  cape  and 
peninsula  are  reefs  and  islands  of  young  balsams,  any- 
where from  six  inches  to  twenty  feet  high,  rich  in  colour, 
perfect  in  shape,  incomparable  in  fragrance.  The  pas- 
ture, in  a  few  years,  would  be  quite  overrun,  oblit- 
erated, were  it  not  for  the  cattle.  They  cannot  quite 
fight  back  the  invasion,  but  they  can  hold  it  in  check. 
None  of  them  is  visible,  perhaps,  as  you  enter  this 
mountain  glade,  but  you  hear  the  sweet  tinkle  of  a  bell, 
and  presently,  around  a  cape  of  Christmas  trees,  comes  a 
Jersey,  head  down,  bell  jingling,  to  lif t  her  soft  eyes  and 
look  at  you. 

The  pasture  is  almost  level,  but  at  the  farther  side 
the  steep  ascent  is  renewed  again,  the  path  marked  by  a 
giant  oak.  Here  the  hardwood  begins,  witness  of  some 
bygone  lumbering.  Behind  the  oak  looms  the  great 
north  peak  of  Kinsman,  which  can  now  be  climbed, 


16    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

thanks  to  a  trail  recently  cut  by  the  son  of  Frederick 
Goddard  Tuckerman,  whose  collected  poems,  published 
in  1860,  have  been  quite  unjustly  forgotten.  The 
Tuckerman  trail  is  a  steep  and  rough  one,  part  way 
through  absolutely  virgin  timber,  where  the  trunks  of 
the  great  canoe  birches  are  green  with  age  and  moss, 
and  it  leads  to  the  finest  view  in  the  White  Mountains, 
finer  than  that  from  Washington  or  Lafayette.  But  we 
shall  not  leave  our  pasture  now  for  the  peak.  The  peak 
is  for  special  occasions,  the  pasture  for  our  daily  solace. 
All  day  long  in  this  pasture  the  Peabodies,  or  white- 
throated  sparrows,  sing  their  flutelike  call;  out  in  the 
sunlight  or  in  the  cool  woods  above  the  cow-bells  tinkle 
drowsily.  All  day  long  the  great  north  peak  looks  down 
upon  you  from  the  east,  and  you  look  down,  in  turn, 
upon  the  world  to  the  west — or  so  much  of  it  as  you  can 
glimpse  through  the  vista  of  the  steep  trail  in  the  ever- 
greens. Looking  westward,  if  you  raise  your  eyes,  you 
see  the  pointed  firs  cutting  sharp  against  the  sky,  the 
sentinels  of  the  pasture.  It  is  at  the  sunset  hour  in 
June  that  we  love  the  pasture  best,  for  it  was  at  such  an 
hour  that  we  discovered  it  many  years  ago,  we  two 
together.  The  sun  may  have  dropped  behind  Flagstaff 
Hill  when  we  leave  the  valley,  and  the  cows  have  de- 
scended to  stand  lowing  behind  the  barn,  but  our  ascent 
is  as  rapid  as  the  sun's  declension,  and  we  reach  the  up- 
land in  time  to  find  the  west  taking  fire,  flaming  into 
gold. 


The  clearing  extends  up  a  steep  slope  to  meet  the  woods 


UPLAND  PASTURES  17 

Now  there  comes  a  hush  in  the  bird  songs,  a  hush  in 
all  nature,  while  the  peak  behind  us  grows  amethyst, 
the  high  zenith  clouds  are  salmon  streamers,  and  the 
golden  west  blushes  into  rose.  The  woods  grow  dim. 
The  rose  dusks  to  a  deeper  hue,  and  suddenly  against 
it  all  the  pointed  firs  stand  darkly  up  like  a  spired  city 
in  fairyland.  At  that  moment  the  birds  break  their 
hush,  the  Peabodies  flute  from  spire  to  spire  like  little 
Moslems  in  Christian  belfries,  and  from  the  dusk  of  the 
forest  wall  behind  us  comes  ringing  the  full-throated 
song  of  a  hermit  thrush.  Even  the  sparrows  respect 
that  master  minstrel,  and  pause.  An  expectant  silence 
succeeds.  Then,  from  farther  off,  from  the  very  depths 
of  the  woods,  the  coolness  of  their  brooks,  the  greenness 
of  their  leaves,  the  mystery  of  their  silences  made  vocal, 
the  answer  comes,  in  liquid  triplets  dripping  twilight. 
George  Moore  has  called  the  songs  of  Schubert  and 
Schumann  "the  moonlit  lakes  and  nightingales  of 
music."  But  what  man-made  music  is  twilight  and 
the  hermit  thrush?  A  few  of  Mozart's  andantes? 
Almost,  perhaps,  yet  they  lack  the  forest  timbre  and  the 
dusk;  they  are  liquid  and  pensive,  but  they  were  com- 
posed at  sunrise,  or  while  the  sun  yet  lingered  on  the  low- 
land meadows.  Incomparable  of  birds,  uncelebrated 
in  classic  story  like  the  nightingale,  uttering  no  home- 
sick note  in  a  warm  and  sentimental  southland  like 
the  mocking  bird,  your  habitat  in  your  musical  mating- 
time  is  the  forests  of  our  bleak  New  Hampshire  hills, 


18    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

and  on  the  border  of  an  upland  pasture  at  twilight  you 
sing  an  unheard  song  that  could  ravish  the  world ! 

And  we,  listening  breathless  beneath  the  dimming 
spires  of  the  pointed  firs,  amid  the  warm  fragrance  of 
the  balsams,  are  secretly  glad  that  this  is  so! 

It  is  from  an  upland  pasture  that  you  may  view  the 
cloud-drive  best.  The  Franconia  cloud-drives  come 
from  the  southeast,  and  usually  the  vanguard  of  the 
procession  sucks  in  through  the  funnel  of  the  Notch, 
on  the  other  side  of  Kinsman,  wrapping  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Mountain  in  vapour  while  yet  the  sun  is  shining 
for  us.  But  soon  the  vapours  find  then*  way  upward. 
We  lift  our  eyes  and  see  their  artillery  smoke  coming 
over  the  north  peak,  trailing,  wind-blown  and  shredded, 
from  its  trees,  and  then  rushing  out  over  our  valley  to 
obliterate  the  sun.  Once  over  the  rampart,  the  whole 
storm  follows  in  their  wake.  A  great,  dark  mass  of 
vapour  drops  down  with  clammy  affection  about  the 
mountain,  rushes  through  the  tree-tops,  and  seems 
about  to  descend  to  our  very  house,  when  it  is  sud- 
denly whisked  off.  Above  this,  on  a  level  with  the 
summit,  the  main  storm  clouds  rush,  pouring  rain,  and, 
finally,  through  rift  after  closing  rift  in  this  layer,  we  can 
see  far  aloft,  moving  more  leisurely,  great  masses  of 
cumuli. 

The  point  where  the  lowest  cloud  leaves  the  mountain 
is  the  top  of  an  upland  pasture.  In  spite  of  the  drench- 
ing rain,  we  climb  past  the  huddled,  despondent  cattle 


UPLAND  PASTURES  19 

into  the  very  vapours.  The  last  heave  of  the  pasture 
into  the  woods  is  shrouded  one  moment  in  gray  mist, 
and  cleared  the  next  by  a  freak  of  the  wind,  revealing 
the  tall  trees  beyond  and  a  glimpse  into  the  high  defile 
of  Cannon  Mountain.  The  cloud  whips  cold  and 
numbing  about  us.  Looking  back  down  the  pasture  we 
can  see  the  rain-drenched  farms,  and  the  western  hill 
wall  going  up  again  into  cloud.  Just  over  us  the  dark 
wrack  moves  with  incredible  speed,  propelled  by  a  wind 
we  cannot  feel.  We  are  on  the  very  under  edge  of  the 
cloud-drive,  in  curious  kinship  with  the  storm. 

But  no  words  on  upland  pastures  would  be  com- 
plete without  mention  of  the  stars.  The  charm  of  up- 
land pastures  is  their  isolation,  their  fellowship  with 
cloud  and  wind,  their  silence  and  their  spaciousness, 
lifted  far  above  the  valley,  adventurous  of  the  heights; 
and  the  boon  companions  of  isolation  are  the  stars. 

The  sunset  glow  has  long  faded  in  the  west,  the  elfin 
spires  are  but  black  shadows  on  purple  depth,  the  Pea- 
bodies  and  thrushes  have  ceased  their  song,  and  only 
an  owl  or  a  night-hawk  sneaks  on  silent  wing  from  the 
woods  behind — yet  still  we  remain  amid  the  warm 
fragrance  of  the  balsams,  loath  to  leave,  or  perhaps 
wrapped  in  our  blankets  not  intending  to  leave  till  we 
have  boiled  our  morning  coffee  against  a  bowlder,  while 
the  sun  flatters  "the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign 
eye."  No  valley  lamps  are  visible  from  this  high, 
sheltered  chamber.  But  a  planet  hangs  like  a  beacon 


20    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

in  a  fir-tree  top,  and  all  the  zenith  blazes.  How  patient 
they  are,  the  stars!  How  slow-moving,  how  unalter- 
able !  You  are  very  small,  beneath  this  coverlet  of  the 
Milky  Way,  and  to  your  mind  come  back  the  words 
from  Tuckerman's  sonnet — he  whose  son  built  the  path 
to  the  peak  beyond: 

And  what  canst  thou,  to  whom  no  hands  belong, 
To  hasten  by  one  hour  the  morning's  birth? 

Or  stay  one  planet  at  his  circle  hung, 

In  the  great  flight  of  stars  across  the  earth? 

It  is  good  to  feel  such  humbleness  amid  the  solemnity 
of  the  heights.  But  it  is  good,  as  well,  to  feel  still  the 
fragrant  warmth  of  the  balsams  keeping  off  the  wind,  to 
listen  quietly  while  a  little  bird  close  by  wakes  with  a 
sweet  cheep  and  rustles  to  another  perch,  and  to  hear, 
for  good-night  lullaby,  the  distant,  drowsy  tinkle  of  a 
cow-bell,  as  the  herd,  turned  loose  again  after  milking, 
make  their  way  slowly  back  to  their  upland  pasture. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  COHORTS  OF  THE  FROST 

SNOW!  What  a  host  of  pleasant  associations  the 
word  awakes!  Words  are  but  Pandoras,  beneficent 
or  otherwise,  each  lifting  the  lid  from  its  box  of  mem- 
ories and  suggestions  and  loosing  them  into  the  fancy. 
For  those  of  us,  at  least,  who  dwell  in  a  land  neither  of 
perpetual  frost  nor  perpetual  Summer,  who  expect  the 
delights  of  a  white  Christmas  and  the  vernal  resurrec- 
tion of  April,  the  word  "snow"  is  key  to  one  of  the 
choicest  of  caskets,  wherein  abide  alike  the  homeliest 
and  heartiest  of  childhood  memories,  and  the  stored 
impressions  of  Nature's  subtlest  of  colour  values  or  the 
cold,  quiet  recollections  of  moonlight  brooding  on  a 
winter  world. 

The  lid  of  the  crystal  casket  has  been  lifted  for  me  by 
the  action  of  my  pen  in  writing  the  word.  The  memory 
of  a  room  flies  out  to  me,  and  nestles  warmly  in  my 
fancy.  I  am  in  the  room,  yet,  strangely  enough,  I 
seem  also  for  a  moment  outside  looking  at  the  house, 
with  its  long  hip  roof  behind,  its  single  huge  chimney,  its 
open-sided  woodshed  filled  with  log  ends  to  the  top,  its 

guardian  trees.    Then  the  sense  of  the  room  steals  over 

21 


22    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

me,  a  room  with  low  ceiling  and  a  red  cloth  on  the  table. 
In  the  corner  stands  a  tall  clock,  and  above  the  dial  face 
a  brig,  with  all  sails  set,  rocks  to  the  swing  of  the  pen- 
dulum, upon  a  painted  ocean.  Tick-tack,  tick-lock — 
very  slowly  and  resonantly  the  great  clock  measures  the 
flight  of  time,  and  the  monotony  of  it  is  as  a  lullaby. 
The  sun  pours  sleepily  in  through  the  western  windows, 
over  the  pots  of  red  geraniums.  On  the  hearth  afire 
crackles  and  the  cat  is  asleep  on  the  rag  rug  before  it. 
Outside,  the  world  is  dazzling  white  at  first,  but  pres- 
ently it  is  blue,  the  same  blue  as  the  sky,  for  the  sun  is 
smking  and  the  tail  columnar  screen  of  the  sugar  grove 
on  the  hill  is  chill  with  shadow.  There  is  steam  rising 
from  the  muffler  of  the  man  driving  past  in  a  pung. 
How  cold  is  the  outside  world,  how  still,  how  buried! 
Tick-tocky  tick-lock — the  brig  rides  up  and  down  upon 
its  painted  ocean.  A  log  falls  with  a  crackle  of  sparks 
and  then  the  flames  wallow  anew  up  the  great  chimney. 
My  eyes  close  drowsily  even  now  at  the  memory,  to 
open  again  to  the  sound  of  dishes  rattled  in  the  kitchen 
and  the  coming  of  the  evening  lamps. 

The  scene  changes,  and  I  stand  outside  of  myself, 
as  it  were,  and  see  myself  go  by  down  the  wind,  the 
spray  of  blown  powder  enveloping  me  to  the  waist  and 
whitening  my  shoulder  blades.  I  am  a  dark  little 
figure  in  blue  "pull-down"  cap  and  navy  blue  pea- 
jacket,  with  a  japanned  tin  lunch  box  under  my  arm, 
a  figure  as  dark  as  the  black  cedars  beside  the  road- 


THE  COHORTS  OF  THE  FROST  23 

side  fence,  or  so  much  of  the  fence  as  is  visible  above  the 
drifts — often  only  the  top  rail.  There  is  no  sun,  only  a 
patch  of  misty  radiance  in  a  white  sky.  The  blown 
snow  is  scurrying  in  clouds  over  the  pastures,  half 
obscuring  the  rusty  wall  of  woods  beyond.  Up  the 
road  ahead  of  me  it  swirls,  and  it  comes  pushing  behind, 
hastening  my  footsteps  and  stinging  my  face  when  I 
turn  about.  Now  I  am  that  little  boy  again  and  feel  the 
tingling  joy  of  ploughing  along  before  the  wind,  of 
kicking  through  the  drifts,  of  racing  ahead  to  catch  the 
runner  of  a  pung,  perhaps,  or  of  fighting  my  way  home 
again  with  my  face  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  my  woollen 
muffler — that  supreme  joy  of  contending  with  ele- 
mental Nature  when  she  demands  of  you  your  utmost. 
Since  that  little  boy  blew  down  the  road  before  the 
wind,  between  the  dark  cedars,  in  a  snowstorm  which 
rose  from  the  ground,  he  has  watched  many  a  snow 
descend  upon  a  great  city,  there  to  blacken  and  melt  and 
finally  to  be  carted  ignominiously  off  and  dumped  in  the 
river.  It  would  begin  to  fall,  perhaps,  hi  the  evening, 
misting  the  lamps  that  blaze  along  Broadway  and  swirl- 
ing in  under  sidewalk  canopies  to  powder  the  hair  of  the 
jewelled  women  who  were  alighting  from  their  car- 
riages and  scurrying  across  the  walk  to  the  theatre  en- 
trance. In  the  morning  the  sun  would  rise  over  a  city 
transformed.  The  stark  trees  in  the  park  would  throw 
out  black  limbs  outlined  beneath  a  white  capping;  in 
Madison  Square,  Esquimaux  igloos  would  rise  in  the 


24    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

streets;  for  one  glorious  morning  the  drab  pattern  of  the 
town  would  disappear  beneath  the  soft,  clean  blanket. 
But  then  would  come  the  slush,  the  blackening,  the 
spatter.  The  country  boy  grew  homesick  for  the  sound 
of  sleighbells,  for  the  rush  of  sleds,  for  the  great  sweep 
of  the  storm  over  mountain  walls  and  the  long  weeks  of 
blue  shadows  on  the  silent  fields,  for  all  the  unexpur- 
gated  drama  of  the  snowy  season.  It  was  not  the  sum- 
mer heat  that  drove  him  from  New  York,  for  that  he 
always  had  contrived  to  escape.  It  was  much  more  the 
snowless  Winter,  Winter  without  the  dramatic  entrance 
of  the  storm,  Winter  without  the  happy  ending  of 
silver  brooks  alive  in  every  road  and  finally  of  vanishing 
wisps  of  white  drift  behind  pasture  walls,  melting  like 
clouds  before  the  winds  of  Spring. 

When  you  were  a  little  boy  did  they  tell  you  that 
when  it  snowed  the  old  woman  up  in  the  sky  was 
shaking  out  her  feather  bed?  It  was  an  appealing 
fancy,  and  I  sometimes  wonder  what  is  its  modern  sub- 
stitute now  that  feather  beds  have  passed.  It  was  a 
great  joy,  surely,  when  the  first  storm  began,  to  stand 
with  upturned  face  and  watch  the  great  flakes  come 
down  out  of  a  white  sky,  assuming  a  separate  indi- 
viduality quite  suddenly,  about  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
above  your  head.  Your  eyes  would  unconsciously 
pick  out  a  particularly  large  flake  as  it  separated  itself 
from  the  blur  of  the  descending  thousands,  and  you 
would  watch  it  flutter  easily  to  earth,  sometimes  with 


THE  COHORTS  OF  THE  FROST  25 

the  lightness  and  irresponsibility  of  a  feather,  some- 
times as  if  it  were  sliding  down  the  air.  Often  you 
would  run  to  catch  it  on  your  coat  sleeve,  to  admire  its 
fairy  texture  of  interwoven  crystals.  Sometimes  it 
would  swerve  and  hit  you  in  the  face,  or  fall  into  your 
open,  laughing  mouth  where  it  instantly  dissolved  with 
the  faintest  hint  of  a  cool  waterdrop.  Then  faster  and 
faster  the  flakes  began  to  come;  they  were  getting  smal- 
ler now  as  the  storm  settled  down  to  its  work,  and  the 
eyes  were  blinded  trying  to  individualize  them.  The 
paths  were  already  white,  the  brown  grass  powdered, 
the  evergreens  putting  on  their  hoods.  It  was  then 
that  you  ceased  your  sport  and  looked  out  on  the  land- 
scape in  silence,  no  doubt  unconscious  of  why  it  suddenly 
held  you,  but  yielding  to  its  spell. 

There  is  not  Emerson's  "tumultuous  privacy  of 
storm"  hi  the  first  snowfall,  nor  the  suggestion  of 
Whittier's  rustic  "Snowbound."  It  comes  upon  a  land 
notjyebdevoid  of  colour  on  the  hills,  the  browns  and  yel- 
lows and  faint  reds  of  hardwood  foliage  still  shredding 
the  branches,  and  a  great  deal  of  it  must  fall  before  the 
ground  plan  of  the  earth — the  roads  and  pasture 
squares  and  meadow  swales — is  obliterated.  What  the 
first  snow  does  is  suddenly  to  spread  a  magic  gauze 
between  you  and  the  familiar  world,  which  accom- 
plishes what  the  white  gauze  in  the  playhouse  is  in- 
tended to  accomplish — the  removal  of  the  objects 
behind  it  into  a  dream  place  of  dimmed  outlines  and 


26    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

shadowy  values.  Through  this  medium  the  high 
lights,  paradoxically,  are  the  darkest  spots,  a  fore- 
ground evergreen,  perhaps,  or  the  barn  across  the  road. 
A  pasture  elm  is  a  fountain  of  twig  tracery,  the  wall  of 
the  mountain  a  wave  of  shadow  billowing  against  the 
white  sky.  But  there  is  nothing  theatrical  about  the 
soft  gauze  of  the  storm;  there  is  no  concentration  or 
colour  in  the  illumination,  but  a  uniform  radiation  of 
pure  light,  as  pure  as  water. 

And  now,  when  you  have  looked  your  fill  on  the  soft 
suffusion  of  your  landscape  spaces,  you  are  at  length 
aware  of  the  sound  of  the  storm,  a  sound  as  soft  as  the 
sight,  not  a  patter  nor  a  hiss,  but  something  between 
the  two  as  the  flakes  descend  on  the  dead  grass  and  the 
foliage,  seeming  to  accelerate  in  pace  when  they  near  the 
earth,  as  if  eager  for  their  lodging  place.  This  delicate 
sound,  of  course,  is  more  apparent  in  the  woods,  or  in 
fields  where  the  dried  weeds  stand  up  stiffly,  and  I  have 
walked  many  a  mile  in  Winter  listening  to  it  in  the  dead 
foliage  above  my  head,  while  each  new  vista  showed  a 
white  world  and  under  foot  the  snow  was  deepening. 

Is  the  world  ever  more  lovely  than  on  the  first  morn- 
ing after  the  first  storm?  From  the  Oh's !  and  Ah's !  and 
How  Lovely's !  of  the  average  inexpressive  mortal,  to  the 
poetry  of  Whittier  or  the  canvases  of  innumerable 
artists,  the  record  runs  of  our  delight  in  the  "frolic 
architecture"  of  the  snow.  I  sometimes  wonder,  as 
they  spindle  skyward,  why  Norway  spruces  were 


27 

planted  before  my  dwelling,  till  the  first  storm  has 
come  and  the  next  morning's  sun  has  risen  bright  and 
cold.  Then  I  know.  Then  their  long  lateral  branches, 
upcurved  at  the  ends,  bear  great  loads  of  white,  in 
cones  and  caps  and  pyramids,  and  the  green  pendants 
of  foliage  below  are  like  the  beards  of  strange  old 
men,  those  unseen  gnomes,  perhaps,  who  so  perplexed 
Peer  Gynt — and  the  critics !  Then  a  great  white  birch 
among  them  is  oddly  whiter  still — the  only  thing  which 
can  look  white  against  new  snow,  except  the  feet  of 
Nicolette.  Then  the  spire  of  a  hemlock  beyond  is  like 
a  frosted  Christmas  card,  and  farther  still,  beyond  the 
white  obscurity  of  the  hedge,  the  world  simply  vanishes 
into  snow  and  sky,  the  background  of  a  Japanese  print, 
which  is  to  say,  pure  suggestion,  the  blank  paper.  How 
curiously  shut-in  we  feel  on  such  a  morning,  in  our  little 
red  house  among  the  evergreens !  We  feel  as  shut-in,  as 
deliciously  private,  as  when  the  mid-winter  storm  is 
besieging  us,  and  the  fire  roars,  and  we  gaze  through 
the  windows  into  a  white  darkness.  But,  though  we 
are  thus  shut  in,  we  can  hear  from  our  porch  the  shouts 
of  our  neighbour's  children,  the  shrill  screams  of  little 
girls  going  by  to  school,  pursued  by  wicked  little  boys 
with  snowballs,  and — yes!  there  they  are! — we  can  hear 
the  jingle  of  sleighbells.  No  work  can  be  done  this 
morning!  Down  from  the  attic  come  the  snowshoes, 
the  thongs  are  tested,  moccasins  are  oiled,  and  we 
are  off  for  the  deep  woods. 


28    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

The  deep  woods  have  many  moods  in  Winter,  more, 
perhaps,  than  in  Summer,  or  even  in  Spring.  But 
they  are  never  quite  so  beautiful  as  on  this  brilliant 
morning  after  the  first  heavy  snowfall.  Now  the  un- 
derbrush is  bowed  everywhere  in  slender  hoops  and 
arches  of  white.  Now  the  brooks  are  still  unfrozen  and 
have  hollowed  the  snow  on  their  banks  into  rounded 
caps.  Now  the  tree  trunks  down  the  forest  aisles  are 
sharply  divided  like  a  Harlequin's  costume  into  black 
and  white,  white  on  the  windward  side,  black  on  the 
leeward.  Now  the  forest  overhead  is  one  continuous 
roof  of  frosted  fairy  tracery,  dazzling  where  the  sun 
shoots  through,  soft  and  feathery  in  shadow.  Down  a 
glittering  forest  aisle  a  fern  stands  up  in  the  shelter 
of  a  rock,  a  vivid  green  above  the  white  carpet.  About 
us  in  the  silence,  as  we  walk,  come  down  little  plops  of 
snow  from  shaken  branches.  As  the  sun  mounts  and  its 
heat  is  felt,  the  tiny  avalanches  are  sounding  softly  all 
around  us  in  the  woods.  By  noon  the  fairy  groins  and 
arches  overhead,  all  this  tracery  as  of  elfin  Gothic  gone 
delightfully  mad,  will  have  fallen.  The  trees  will  stand 
up  naked  above  a  snow  carpet  packing  down  for  the 
first  layer  of  Winter.  But  for  one  glorious  morning  we 
walk  in  spangled  aisles  and  count  it  the  best  day  of  the 
year. 

Later,  when  the  real  storms  of  Whiter  have  followed 
and  packed  two  feet  of  snow  upon  the  forest  floor,  when 
the  brooks  have  frozen  into  winding  coils  of  slippery 


THE  COHORTS  OF  THE  FROST  29 

black  amid  the  great  trunks,  when  the  trees  are  stern 
and  naked  with  daggers  of  light  between  them,  a  hush 
of  death  comes  over  the  winter  woods,  a  beautiful,  sol- 
emn hush,  and  one  instinctively  lowers  his  voice  as  in 
the  presence  of  mystery.  Yet  see  where  the  deer-mice 
have  danced,  and  where  a  squirrel  has  jumped  to  the 
foot  of  an  evergreen,  burrowed  for  cones,  and  emerged 
again  to  leave  the  telltale  husks  of  his  meal.  Looking 
at  the  records  on  the  ground,  the  woods  seem  very 
much  alive,  alive  at  hours  when  we  are  sleeping,  per- 
haps, and  the  deer  come  through.  See,  here  are  their 
tracks,  and  here  a  shrub  eaten  off  clean  to  the  snow  line. 
As  the  snow  settles  on  the  face  of  Nature  and  becomes 
a  part  of  it,  as  the  village  paths  are  packed  as  hard  as 
pavement  and  the  roads  glisten  with  runner  tracks,  we 
begin  to  lose  consciousness  of  tlje  first  all-pervading 
whiteness  and  become  aware  of  the  colours  in  the  whiter 
world.  I  once  kept  a  diary  of  the  snow  for  an  entire 
season — need  I  say  it  was  my  first  season  after  our  ex- 
odus from  the  land  of  bondage?  Looking  back  over  its 
pages,  I  find  descriptions  of  rhapsodic,  not  to  say  start- 
ling, colour  schemes.  Here  is  one: 

"The  view  from  High  Pasture  this  afternoon  was  lovely. 
In  the  southwest,  under  a  canopy  of  leaden  clouds,  was  a 
warm  red  rift  over  the  peak  of  Tom  Ball  Mountain,  and  it 
tinted  the  snow  in  the  valley  almost  to  my  feet.  To  the 
east  the  sky  was  clear,  a  pure  mother-of-pearl  green  and  opal, 
over  the  long  wave  line  of  brilliant  ultramarine  mountains." 


30    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

But  that  note  is  not  exaggerated.  It  is  an  accurate 
transcription.  Many  years  ago  I  read  somewhere  a 
statement  by  Maxfield  Parrish  that  the  colour  scheme  of 
New  England  could  be  as  vivid  as  that  of  Arizona,  but  it 
was  not  till  I  had  dwelt  a  Winter  through  amid  the  New 
England  hills  that  I  believed  him.  Mount  Lafayette 
sometimes  is  a  mighty  amethyst  in  the  August  sunset, 
but  even  our  humble  Berkshires  are  amethysts  evening 
after  evening  when  the  valleys  are  deep  in  snow  and  the 
wooded  slopes  are  gray  with  chestnuts  and  birches 
streaked  on  the  winter  carpet;  they  are  a  beautiful  chain 
of  amethysts  binding  the  farms,  the  villages,  the  river 
reaches,  and  at  their  feet  at  twilight  into  the  rusty  tama- 
rack swamp  steals  a  purple  veil,  which  mounts  the 
eastern  wall  as  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  western,  dusk- 
ing into  blue  before  it  creeps  quite  to  the  summit,  and 
changing  from  blue  to  an  elusive,  shadowy  gunmetal 
colour  as  the  evening  comes  and  a  silver  moon  rides  high. 

There  are  sometimes  colours  in  the  later  snowstorms, 
too.  It  may  be,  of  course,  merely  a  coincidence,  but 
within  my  observation  these  coloured  snowstorms 
have  all  occurred  after  the  February  thaws,  when  the 
mind  has  begun  to  prepare  itself  for  Spring.  The  in- 
creased power  of  the  sun  and  the  higher  tempera- 
ture are,  in  fact,  responsible  for  the  atmospheric  effects 
which  produce  the  colour.  It  can  come  from  nothing 
else,  for  the  earth  is  as  bare  and  brown  as  in  December; 
there  is  no  more  colour  on  the  hills,  no  brighter  hue  on 


THE  COHORTS  OF  THE  FROST  31 

the  evergreens.  Such  a  storm  is  the  winter  analogy  of 
the  summer  shower  which  dusks  the  landscape  with  a 
dun,  ashen  cloud,  but  leaves  a  hole  of  blue  sky  hi  the 
west  and  plays  on  far  mountains  here  and  there  a  tur- 
quoise searchlight.  From  one  quarter  of  the  heavens 
the  white  vapour  drives  down  upon  us  out  of  colourless 
space,  but  in  the  opposite  quarter  a  mother-of-pearl  sky 
gleams  faintly  through  the  mist,  the  mountain  wall  be- 
neath it  is  like  blue  and  green  watered  silk  seen  through 
a  white  veil,  and  the  fir  trees  are  emerald.  Such  a 
storm  passes  quickly.  We  know  it  is  not  "fixin*  for  a 
blizzard,"  as  the  saying  goes.  But  while  it  lasts  it  has 
something  of  the  iridescent  yet  illusive  colour  of  a  tone- 
poem  by  Debussy. 

How  lovely,  in  its  soft,  delicate  shades,  is  the  whiter 
landscape  by  the  river  bank,  where  the  gray  and  coffee- 
tan  of  a  mottled  old  sycamore  leans  out  over  the  dark 
ice  or  the  black  streaks  of  open  water,  while  beneath 
its  bare  limbs,  over  the  snowy  fields,  we  see  the  blue 
dome  of  a  mountain!  The  snow  builds  exquisite  cor- 
nices over  the  river  bank,  and  the  dead  weed  stalks  rise 
above  them  with  a  delicate,  stiff  grace.  Every  line — 
the  snow  cornices,  the  edge  of  open  water,  the  bare 
limbs  of  the  tree,  the  mountain  dome — is  a  fluid  curve, 
and  every  colour  is  a  tint,  suffusing  the  black  and  white 
ground  plan.  There  is  a  subtler  technique  in  the  winter 
landscape. 

In  the  country,  the  old  age  of  the  snow  is  dignified 


32    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

and  its  passing  a  beautiful  thing.  All  Winter  it  has 
covered  the  ground,  protecting  the  shrubs  and  flower 
beds,  conserving  our  gardens,  our  woods,  even  our 
soil.  Then,  on  a  March  morning,  it  begins  to  feel  the 
deadly  breath  of  the  south  wind  and  knows  that  its 
time  has  come.  I  have  unconsciously  personified  it, 
falling  into  Mr.  Ruskin's  "pathetic  fallacy"  and  violat- 
ing the  no  doubt  excellent  principles  once  taught  me  by 
the  worthy  "  Rhetoric  "  of  Professor  Hill.  But  occasion- 
ally one's  instincts  kick  over  the  traces  of  rule  and 
reason,  and  the  kindly  snow,  which  has  covered  our 
world  the  season  through,  will  demand  its  place  in  our 
pagan  pantheon,  our  secret  temple  of  the  ancient 
deities  none  of  us  has  quite  destroyed  in  his  heart.  Yes, 
the  snow  feels  the  mortal  kiss  of  the  south  wind  and 
knows  that  its  time  has  come.  By  noon  the  roads  are 
water  brooks,  two  silvery  streams  dancing  and  flashing 
down  the  runner  ruts.  On  exposed  sections,  where  the 
wind  has  blown  the  snow  thin,  bare  ground  begins  to  ap- 
pear and  the  sleigh  runners  crunch  and  grind  behind  the 
straining  horse.  On  a  southern  slope  of  autumn  plough- 
ing, the  brown  tops  of  furrows  begin  here  and  there  to 
poke  up  above  the  white,  like  tiny  islands  in  the  sea. 
The  eaves  drip.  The  chickadees  are  sounding  their 
love  call.  Then  it  is  we  go  out  into  the  buried  garden 
and  see  the  dark  cone  of  the  manure  pile  melted  off  and 
rising  above  the  white,  a  happy  harbinger  of  flowers. 
A  second  day,  a  third  day,  of  caressing  south  wind, 


33 

and  the  sleighbells  jingle  no  more,  the  mountain  pas- 
tures are  bare,  the  fields  and  gardens  are  wet,  brown 
earth,  and  suddenly  a  song  sparrow  sings  in  the  hedge. 
But  we  make  one  more  trip  into  the  deep  woods,  to  say 
farewell  to  the  Winter,  into  the  high  forests  on  the 
mountains  this  time,  for  it  is  there  the  snow  longest 
abides.  We  tramp  at  first  along  sloppy,  muddy  roads, 
and  then  through  soggy  fields,  past  brooks  which  are 
full  to  overflowing.  There  are  white  drifts  along  the 
pasture  walls,  however,  and  as  we  draw  near  the 
mountain  side  we  can  see  the  white  carpet  through  the 
trees,  which  explains  why  the  mountains  still  look  gray 
though  the  rest  of  the  world  is  brown.  As  we  enter 
the  woods,  our  boots  sink  almost  knee-high  into  the  soft 
mass,  which  is  too  heavy  for  snowshoes.  As  we  climb, 
it  grows  deeper,  eighteen  inches  of  it  some  years  in  late 
March  on  the  northern  side  of  the  hills.  The  mountain 
wall  grows  steeper,  the  climbing  harder,  till  at  last  the 
soft,  treacherous  snow  affords  no  footing  at  all,  and  we 
can  climb  no  more.  We  find  an  exposed  rock  which  the 
sun  has  melted  clear,  and  sit  there  to  rest,  surrounded 
by  green  arbutus  plants  and  the  fresh  tendrils  of  Herb 
Robert.  We  are  hot  and  coatless,  yet  soaked  with  snow. 
The  melting  is  gradual  up  here  in  the  woods,  and  so  long 
as  the  woods  remain  they  are  our  protection  from  spring 
floods,  and  our  guarantee  of  a  summer  water  supply. 

The  homeward  trip  is  a  matter  of  sliding,  perhaps  of 
frequent  tumbles,  of  panting  breath  and  laughter.    The 


34    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

roads  have  dried  out  perceptibly  since  we  came  over 
them  earlier  in  the  day.     In  many  a  furrow  pools  of 
water  have  succeeded  the  zebra  stripes  of  white.     As  we 
look  back  to  the  upland  pastures  the  shreds  of  drift  along 
the  stone  walls  and  by  the  edge  of  the  woods  are  frailer 
now.     A  day  of  warm  ram,  and  they  will  be  gone.     How 
tawny  red  the  willows  are  in  the  swamp !     See,  here  are 
bursting  pussy  buds !    We  have  said  good-bye  to  the  snow. 
Yet  not  quite  good-bye.     In  April  it  comes  again,  a 
last  belated  rear  guard  of  white  cavalry  skirmishing 
across   the  garden   after   a   dash   over   the   northern 
mountain.     The  early  peas  are  up,  two  double  rows  of 
them  fifty  feet  long,  and  as  the  garden  quickly  whitens 
they  make  four  green  lines  across  the  snow.     Then  the 
sun  struggles  through  and  drives  back  the  attack.    The 
hotbeds,  covered  as  with  a  mat  of  feathers,  begin  to  melt 
through;  the  manure  pile  steams;  the  eaves  drip  merrily; 
the  astonished  song  sparrows,  driven  into  the  pines  and 
even  into  the  woodshed,  emerge  again,  and  redouble  their 
song  as  if  to  capture  the  lost  time.     This,  indeed,  is  our 
farewell  to  the  snow,  and  as  we  contemplate  the  green 
shoots  of  the  perennials,  protected,  kept  alive  by  their 
long  whiter  covering;  as  we  see  our  lilacs  bursting  into 
bud  and  hear  the  brook's   full-throated  babble,  fed 
from  the  melting  hills,  there  is  tenderness  and  gratitude 
in  our  farewell,  as  there  will  be  once  more  warmth  in  our 
welcome  when  over  the  northern  hills  comes  back  again 
the  first  white  skirmish  line  of  the  cohorts  of  the  frost. 


CHAPTER  III 


"I  HAVE  never  been  in  the  country  in  Spring  be- 
fore," said  a  visitor  to  our  town,  contemplating  my  pink 
apple  trees  against  their  backing  of  pine,  and  sniffing 
ecstatically. 

"But,  Madame,"  said  I,  "you  have  not  been  in  the 
country  in  Spring  this  time." 

It  would  have  been  a  shame  to  rob  her  of  her  joy,  had 
there  been  a  chance  that  she  would  believe  me.  Of 
course,  she  did  not.  Yet  actually  the  best  part  of 
Spring  is  over  before  the  apple  blossoms  come.  My 
summer  neighbours  who  open  their  places  in  May  to 
enjoy  this  season,  and  who  suppose  the  "hardships"  of 
a  mountain  Winter  to  be  almost  unendurable,  would 
scarcely  recognize  Spring  at  all  when  it  first  arrives. 
Its  skirmishers  would  seem  to  them  like  another  phase  of 
Winter,  perhaps,  or  at  any  rate  something  disagreeable 
and  to  be  avoided,  such  as  March  mud.  It  is  almost  a 
sign  of  Spring  for  us  when  we  have  to  carry  wax  in  our 
pockets  on  a  ski  run,  applying  it  frequently.  It  is  a 
sign  of  Spring  when  the  runner  ruts  on  the  roads  begin 
to  fill  with  slush  at  mid-day,  and  bare  patches  appear  on 

85 


36    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

favoured  southern  slopes.  From  long  experience,  we  are 
under  no  delusion  that  Winter  is  preparing  for  a  hasty 
retreat.  The  old  fellow  has  several  batteries  of  snow 
and  sleet  yet  to  discharge,  and  many  a  skirmisher  of 
Spring  will  fall  before  the  main  forces  come  up  and  win 
back  our  land.  But  these  first  brushes  with  the  on- 
coming green  hosts  are  more  fascinating  than  the 
final  conquest,  just  as  the  dramatic  moment  at  Luck- 
now  was  not  when  the  relief  party  entered  the  fort,  but 
when  the  bagpipes  first  were  heard,  far  off  and  faint. 

Moreover,  in  the  earliest  manifestations  of  Spring 
there  is  an  actual  beauty  like  nothing  else  at  any 
season.  I  recall  once  going  up  by  the  old  road  over 
October  Mountain  to  help  a  neighbour  drive  home  some 
cows  he  had  bought.  We  were  forced  to  leave  the 
wagon  at  the  foot,  because  as  soon  as  the  road  left  the 
valley  and  began  to  ascend  through  the  woods  it  was 
deep  with  soft  snow.  It  was  a  bright,  clear  morning 
that  might  have  been  in  midwinter,  we  thought  as 
we  plodded  up,  save  that  the  brook  was  running  free  of 
ice,  we  tramped  without  our  sweaters,  and  in  the  bare 
woods  the  chickadees  were  fluttering  silently.  In  mid- 
winter they  would  all  have  been  close  to  our  dwellings. 
But  when  we  drove  down  the  cows  at  two  o'clock,  the 
scene  was  transformed.  We  splashed  along  through 
water,  for  the  two  runner  ruts  in  the  road  were  now  little 
silver  brooks,  flashing  and  dancing  in  the  sun.  The 
battle  was  on,  and  the  first  victory  had  gone  to  Spring! 


THE  SKIRMISH  LINE  OF  SPRING  37 

The  snow  was  beginning  to  retreat  down  the  mountain 
side.  It  still  held  in  the  woods,  but  here  in  the  road  it 
was  in  full  rout,  and  beside  the  road,  too,  the  brook  had 
risen  to  a  rushing,  milky  torrent  which  eddied  about  the 
stems  of  the  alders  and  swayed  their  swollen  buds  like 
some  silent,  violent  wind. 

There  comes  a  day  in  the  first  advent  of  Spring  when  a 
perverse  thermometer,  which  has  been  plunging  nightly 
below  frost  line  and  creeping  too  briefly  up  at  noon,  sud- 
denly takes  a  jump.  The  air  is  balmy,  the  sun  is 
bright,  there  has  been  no  frost  the  night  before  to  make  a 
glistening  mud-skin  on  the  walks;  the  dead  leaves,  which 
have  apparently  rotted  down  during  the  winter,  are  dry, 
at  least  on  the  surface,  and  rustle  about  in  a  caressing 
wind.  Though  snowdrifts  yet  linger  under  the  ever- 
greens and  in  northward  shelters,  the  footing  is  firm  over 
the  lawn,  and  the  woods  call.  You  cross  fields  that  are 
bare  of  snow,  the  brown  and  palest  straw  colour  of  dead 
weeds  and  grasses,  and  enter  the  woods  on  the  first 
slope  of  the  mountain.  What  an  exquisite  world  it  is! 
The  birches  shine  white,  as  if  new-washed  by  Winter. 
The  chestnuts  are  gray,  the  poplars  have  a  yellow  tinge. 
The  forest  floor,  lying  plain  to  view  now  with  no  shadow- 
ing foliage,  is  a  brown  and  gray  carpet,  almost  silvery  in 
texture  here  and  there,  for  dead  leaves  under  a  recently 
melted  snowdrift  often  seem  to  bear  a  film  of  gray 
mould.  The  interlacing  branches  overhead  make  an 
exquisite  tracery  against  the  sky  and  dapple  the  ground 


38    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

with  delicate  shadows.  Many  plants,  too,  especially 
the  perennial  ferns,  have  come  through  the  Winter 
green  and  fresh,  so  that  it  almost  appears  as  if  some 
gardener  had  been  here  already,  getting  his  first  spring 
planting  done.  But  the  greatest  charm  of  the  woods  on 
this  bright  morning  is  the  water.  Just  on  this  day, 
perhaps,  can  you  see  it.  Yesterday  the  melting  process 
was  too  slow.  To-morrow  the  run  will  be  over.  But, 
for  this  once,  those  lingering  white  drifts  you  see  up  the 
slope,  under  a  protecting  bowlder  or  in  the  shadow  of  the 
evergreens,  are  pouring  down  little  brooks  of  dancing 
quicksilver  over  the  forest  floor.  They  follow  no  worn 
channels;  they  flow  not  to  rule  or  boundary.  Over  the 
brown  leaves  they  come,  by  any  little  hollow,  irre- 
sponsible, twinkling,  with  the  softest  of  plashing  sounds 
as  one  of  them  jumps  over  a  fern-covered  rock  or  the 
root  of  an  aged  chestnut,  and  sinks  into  the  moss  or  the 
mould. 

And  the  smell  of  the  forest  that  day !  It  is  the  smell  of 
sweet,  black  humus,  just  exposed.  It  is  the  smell  of 
dead  Winter.  It  is  the  indescribable  smell  of  pure  ice 
water  running  over  leaves.  If  you  know  it,  you  know  it. 
If  not,  no  description  can  bring  the  odour  to  your 
nostrils.  It  is  the  first  and  sweetest  smell  of  Spring. 

On  such  a  day,  too,  the  upland  pastures,  clear  of  the 
woods,  have  their  own  little  ice-water  brooks  that  run 
and  spread  and  reunite  over  the  dead  grass,  or  plough 
tiny  channels  through  the  soil,  the  spongy,  soft  soil,  free 


THE  SKIRMISH  LINE  OF  SPRING  39 

at  last  of  frost  on  the  surface  and  almost  too  yielding 
to  the  feet.  The  lone  chestnuts  or  maples  which  senti- 
nel such  a  pasture  bear  as  yet  no  sign  of  life,  though  if 
you  break  a  twig  from  the  maple  a  crystal  drop  of  sap 
will  form,  which  you  let  fall  on  your  tongue  to  taste  its 
faint  sweetness.  But  though  the  maples  and  chestnuts 
are  bare  as  hi  Winter,  looking  over  to  the  doming  slope 
of  birch  forest  across  the  ravine,  where  the  sun  hits  it  full 
and  warm,  you  catch,  or  think  you  do,  the  frailest 
wraith  of  fuzzy  colour  in  the  treetops.  It  is  as  in- 
tangible as  a  dream;  a  cloud  dusks  the  sun,  and  it  is 
gone.  Yet  you  are  sure  it  is  there,  the  birth-blush  of  the 
foliage.  In  the  upland  pasture,  too,  on  such  a  day,  a 
stone  wall  running  east  and  west  will  present  a  curious 
contrast,  for  on  the  northern  side  will  lie  a  snowdrift, 
still  a  foot  or  two  deep,  perhaps,  with  the  snow  darkened 
by  the  wind-blown  particles  of  bark  and  litter  deposited 
during  the  Winter,  and  melted  into  coarse  texture  like 
rock  salt;  while  on  the  southern  side,  beneath  the  dead 
stalks  of  last  year's  mulleins,  milkweed,  and  golden-rod, 
the  ground  will  be  quite  dry  for  several  feet  out,  and  you 
are  irresistibly  drawn  to  lie  down  upon  it,  warm  and 
sheltered,  and  get  your  first  lazy  feel  of  Mother  Earth. 
Here,  also,  as  you  lie  out  of  the  wind  on  the  south  side  of 
the  wall,  you  will  catch  the  first  subtle  ground  smell  of 
the  Spring. 

Like  the  two  sides  of  the  stone  wall  are  the  two  sides  of 
the  sweet-pea  trenches,  dug  the  previous  Autumn,  and 


40     GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  two  sides  of  the  mound  of  excavated  earth  beside 
them.  The  south  side  of  the  trench,  in  shadow,  is 
frozen  solid,  while  the  north  side  grows  softer  and 
mushier  day  by  day.  The  side  of  the  piled  earth  exposed 
to  the  sun  is  also  soft,  the  dark  side  hard  as  ever.  Day 
after  day  in  March  I  have  watched  those  trenches,  test- 
ing with  a  pick  or  spade  to  see  when  I  could  begin  to 
sow.  Ultimately  there  comes  a  day  when  enough  of 
the  ice  has  melted  out  of  the  trench  and  enough  of  the 
excavated  earth  has  become  friable,  to  enable  me  to 
plant.  Then  the  carefully  soaked  and  chipped  seeds  are 
brought  forth,  the  labelled  stakes  are  prepared,  and 
into  ground  that,  after  all,  is  still  cold  and  wet  and  full  of 
frozen  lumps,  go  the  precious  promises  of  bloom.  More 
than  once  I  have  covered  the  row  and  risen  the  next 
morning  to  find  even  the  tops  of  the  labels  buried  hi 
snow.  But  once  those  sweet  pea  seeds  are  in  the 
ground,  we  have  ceased  to  think  of  Winter.  Our  faces 
are  set  forward  toward  the  Spring. 

The  first  and  sweetest  sound  of  Spring,  of  course,  is 
the  song  of  the  Hylas,  those  little  sappers  and  miners  of 
the  advance  guard  who  attack  through  the  marshes,  or 
even  through  the  melted  snow  water  in  the  grassy  hol- 
lows beside  a  country  road.  In  our  Berkshire  Hills 
Spring  is  late  in  coming,  sometimes  almost  a  month 
later  than  in  New  Jersey.  There  have  been  seasons 
when  the  Hylas  did  not  sing  till  April  (once,  to  prove 
the  lateness  of  our  season,  I  ran  down  my  garden  slope 


THE  SKIRMISH  LINE  OF  SPRING  41 

on  skis  on  April  15th.) !  But,  of  course,  we  usually  can 
count  on  them  some  time  in  March.  On  March  21, 
1913,  for  instance,  I  find  this  entry  in  my  diary: 

It  has  been  a  warm  day.  The  thermometer  was  58°  at 
ten  o'clock  to-night.  The  Hylas  sang  for  the  first  time  this 
season.  I  heard  them  at  half -past  five,  just  as  I  was  straight- 
ening up  my  back  after  chopping  out  a  stump.  As  usual, 
they  were  singing  in  the  meadow  across  the  road,  and  a  strong 
south  wind,  blowing  a  gray  storm-wrack  overhead,  brought 
the  sound  plainly,  but  robbed  it  of  its  peculiar  Spring  quality. 
However,  the  wind  died  at  sunset,  the  moon  came  out,  and  we 
sat  on  the  veranda  after  dinner  for  the  first  time  since  last 
Summer.  Then  the  song  of  the  frogs  drifted  to  us  with  the 
chime  of  distance,  beating  in  its  peculiar  wave-like  rhythm  (or 
is  that  rhythm  a  trick  of  the  ear?)  upon  our  consciousness,  and 
mingling  with  the  fragrance  of  damp  earth.  "Spring!"  we 
said. 

The  Hylas  are  like  a  small  boy  with  a  pair  of  skates— 
any  water  will  do  for  them.  I  learned  to  skate  on  the 
frozen  gutter  beside  the  road.  The  Hylas  in  our  mead- 
ows are  often  thickest  and  most  tuneful  in  a  little  swale 
of  surface  water  which  winds  through  the  grass  just  at 
this  flood  time,  and  by  May  is  quite  gone.  It  looks  from 
a  distance  like  a  brook,  but  in  reality  it  is  only  a  shallow 
depression,  with  grass  and  elm  leaves  at  the  bottom, 
the  still,  melted-snow  water  filling  it,  quite  clear,  but 
that  peculiar  brown  of  water  which  has  stood  over  dead 
leaves.  It  has  come  with  the  advent  of  Spring;  soon  it 
will  be  gone.  Yet  it  is  stirring  with  life  for  the  short 
period  of  its  existence,  and  shrilly  vocal. 


42     GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

It  is  at  about  this  time  that  we  go  out  in  the  garden 
one  morning  to  see  half  a  hundred  rufous  fox  sparrows 
hippety-hopping  down  the  paths  with  their  character- 
istic rapidity.  It  is  now  that  the  chickadees  do  not 
have  to  be  coaxed  into  replying  to  their  love  call,  but 
will  answer  immediately  when  we  whistle  the  three 
notes.  It  is  now  that  we  know  the  thrill  of  putting  the 
first  vegetable  seeds  into  the  open  ground,  which  will  be 
well-sprouted  rows  of  peas  when  your  summer  resident 
arrives  in  May.  What  does  he  know  of  that  first  testing 
of  the  unploughed  garden  for  underlying  frost,  that  first 
afternoon  of  stooping  toil,  with  sleeves  rolled  up  and  the 
sun  at  last  caressingly  warm  on  arms  so  white  that  you 
are  ashamed  of  them! 

This  is  a  season  of  raking,  too,  and  of  little  bonfires 
which  send  up  a  pungent  smoke  at  first,  thinning  to  a 
straight  blue  vapour  as  the  wind  dies  and  the  sunset 
twines  an  amethyst  veil  in  the  lacy,  naked  apple  boughs. 
There  is  still  a  chill  in  the  gathering  twilight,  but  not 
enough  to  drive  you  to  your  coat.  You  draw  a  little 
closer  to  the  embers,  poke  your  rake  into  them  and  stir 
up  a  flame,  and  then,  leaning  on  your  rake,  watch  the 
red  fire-glows  jumping  about  amid  the  veined  skeletons 
of  burned  leaves  with  the  discontinuity  of  dream  images, 
while  far  off  the  shrill  of  the  Hylas  rises  sweetly  from  the 
swamp.  Does  any  but  a  gardener  know  this  delicious 
moment  of  the  Spring? 

I  love  to  smell  the  early  spring  fires  from  afar,  to  come 


THE  SKIRMISH  LINE  OF  SPRING  43 

out  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  perhaps,  and  look  across  a 
rolling  pasture  where  a  few  belated  drifts  of  snow  are 
still  stretched  like  fingers  of  Winter  keeping  a  last  grip 
on  the  soil,  to  some  white  house  and  mouse-gray  barns, 
and  to  watch  tiny  figures  moving  about  in  the  orchard, 
piling  the  litter  from  trimming  on  the  fires,  which  are 
sending  up  their  fragrant  smoke  plumes  into  the  air. 
As  the  sun  drops  into  the  west,  these  fires  will  burn  low 
and  their  gray  smoke  will  be  touched  with  salmon-rose, 
even  as  the  great  white  cumuli  drifting  in  the  sky 
above.  A  little  later,  and  they  will  glow  like  red  eyes  in 
the  dusk  of  the  orchard,  but  the  pungent  fragrance  of 
their  smoke  will  scent  the  quiet  spring  night  long  after 
the  flicker  of  their  flames  has  disappeared. 

There  is  a  time  when  Spring,  to  the  eye,  is  curiously 
like  Autumn,  as  if  the  seasons,  passing  one  into  the 
other,  went  through  the  same  process.  That  is  the 
time  when  the  hillsides  are  tapestried.  The  colours  of 
Spring,  of  course,  are  not  quite  the  same,  and  the  texture 
is  totally  different.  Nevertheless,  between  the  green  of 
Summer  and  the  reds  and  grays  of  Winter,  comes  a  time 
both  in  October  and  in  April  when  an  intricate  warm 
pattern  is  woven  up  the  slopes. 

I  read  in  my  diary  for  April  6th,  a  few  years  ago: 

A  day  of  alternate  snow  squalls  and  sunshine,  Spring  and 
Winter  contending.  Walking  home  past  Monument  Mountain 
we  saw  a  steep  west  shoulder  now  take  the  sun,  now  vanish 
into  a  nothingness  of  white  vapour.  Emerging  once  in  full 


44     GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

light,  a  long,  wooded  slope  was  a  lovely  pattern  of  lavender 
and  straw  yellow,  streaked  with  the  white  verticals  of  young 
birch  trees.  The  lavender  came  from  birch  buds  in  the 
western  light,  the  yellow  from  the  poplar  tops.  The  spring 
where  we  paused  to  drink  was  gushing  full,  and  farther 
along  the  roadside  the  hepaticas  were  brave  amid  last  year's 
leaves. 

But  when  the  hepaticas  have  come,  Winter  is  almost 
in  full  retreat.  The  lavender  birch  buds  will  soon  be  a 
frail  green  veil,  and  then,  after  a  day  of  hot  sun,  a  fresh, 
intense  colour  note  on  every  hillside.  Soon  the  great 
elm  limbs  that  arch  over  our  village  street  will  be  hazy 
with  a  hint  of  red,  and  then  red  indeed  against  the  pale 
blue  sky.  A  new  note  comes  into  the  sunset  then,  a 
new  star  into  the  west.  Our  village  street  runs  east  and 
west  almost  on  the  compass  line,  and  the  winter  sunset 
glow  is  framed  by  the  delicate,  naked  tracery  of  the 
arching  elm  boughs.  But  when  the  red  fuzz  has  sud- 
denly appeared  on  the  trees  the  whole  quality  of  this 
frame  is  altered,  and  with  it  the  quality  of  the  western 
glow.  It  is  as  if  a  new  colour  note  of  warmth  had  been 
sounded.  At  the  same  time,  too,  with  the  lengthening 
twilight,  comes  the  hour  of  the  lone  evening  star,  not 
with  the  suddenness  of  Winter,  the  obscuring  haze  of 
Summer,  but  swelling  slowly  into  the  western  vista  out 
of  the  afterglow,  with  a  sweet  serenity. 

Now  like  a  crop  from  the  famous  dragon's  teeth  the 
iris  spears  will  be  stiffening  up  all  over  the  garden,  and 
in  the  woods  a  wake  robin  will  nod  in  a  shaft  of  sun  by 


THE  SKIRMISH  LINE  OF  SPRING  45 

the  brook.  On  a  clear,  warm  morning  I  shall  awake  to  a 
thrilling  flute  call  just  outside  my  window — the  first 
white-throated  sparrow!  Spring  will  be  here,  the 
Spring  of  the  poets,  of  bird  song  and  flowers.  But  its 
sweetest  moments  will  have  passed,  those  first  stirrings 
in  the  sod,  those  anticipatory  sounds  and  odours,  those 
whispered  premonitions.  Somehow,  it  is  they  that  I 
love  best. 


CHAPTER  IV 
GLACIER  PARK 

THE  lure  of  the  prairie,  the  lure  of  the  rolling  plains, 
the  lure  of  the  sky-blue  mountains!  How  good  it  was 
to  leave  the  East  behind,  to  leave  behind  those  midland 
cities  belching  smoke,  Chicago  with  its  sooty  roar,  St. 
Paul  and  the  muddy  Mississippi !  Now  there  was  noth- 
ing but  prairie,  endless  wheat  fields  level  to  the  sky  with 
little  domestic  oases  where  house  and  barns  snuggled 
into  their  encircling  grove,  to  escape  perhaps  the  Sum- 
mer sun,  perhaps  the  inquisitive  eye  of  the  next  door 
neighbour  a  mile  away.  Night  came  on  the  prairie,  a 
dusky  emanation  from  the  ground,  and  dawn  came  with 
a  wonderful  orange  glow,  and  night  again.  Then,  at  the 
second  dawn,  we  looked  on  a  different  world,  a  treeless 
world  but  no  longer  an  infinite  calm  ocean  of  grain.  A 
great  ground  swell  had  crossed  the  universe  in  the 
night,  and  the  green  land  was  slowly  settling  down  to 
rest  again  with  the  heaving  of  ten  thousand  billows; 
wave  after  wave  of  grassy  slope,  heave  after  heave  of 
the  restless  land,  all  day  beside  the  rushing  train.  And 
then  the  miracle,  the  sky-blue  mountains! 

They  have  no  foothills,  these  Rocky  Mountains  of 

46 


GLACIER  PARK  47 

ours  in  northwestern  Montana.  Naked  and  sudden, 
they  leap  up  out  of  the  prairie  grass,  a  vast  blue  range 
of  them  vanishing  into  the  north,  vanishing  into  the 
south,  on  their  march  from  the  Arctic  ice  to  the  Equator. 
They  march  beside  the  prairie  flowers,  their  snowfields 
glittering  white  above  the  carpet  of  lupines  and  gail- 
lardias,  and  whisper  of  the  mysteries  their  blue  folds 
hold.  At  three  o'clock  you  see  them  sharp  and  clear, 
but  not  till  eight  do  you  reach  them,  and  as  you  leave 
the  stuffy  train  a  wind  is  coining  down  from  those  snow- 
fields,  over  the  fringing  forest  of  fir,  cool,  caressing, 
fragrant.  "Open  your  eyes,"  they  say  to  you.  Then, 
"Open  your  lungs  and  breathe,  deep,  deep!'*  But  the 
twilight  rose  is  blushing  now  on  the  snowfields,  a  pearly 
blue  to  the  eastward  has  made  the  rolling  prairie  as  the 
sea.  "Now,  open  your  heart,"  they  say,  "for  you  are 
doomed  to  be  our  lover." 

The  road  northward  into  the  depths  of  the  range, 
once  only  a  dim  trail  but  now  passable  for  motors,  runs 
for  a  considerable  distance  over  the  prairie,  as  if  it  were 
looking  for  an  opening  where  it  could  squeeze  into  the 
blue  wall.  No  entrance  could  be  better  devised,  for  a 
mountain,  a  lovely  vale,  a  rock-walled  lake,  resents  too 
sudden  an  approach.  Even  in  so  little  a  thing  as  a 
garden,  the  wise  man  knows  it  must  not  all  be  visible 
from  the  veranda,  or  a  secret  magic  has  escaped.  There 
must  be  climaxes  and  surprises,  and  at  least  one  nook 
which  shuts  out  all  view  save  of  itself.  So  the  mountain 


48    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

range,  even  the  individual  peak,  must  be  seen  afar,  then 
nearer  with  the  play  of  different  lights  upon  it,  then 
skirted,  perhaps,  to  observe  its  varying  contours  (for  the 
beautiful  mountain,  like  the  perfect  statue,  must  give 
pleasure  from  any  angle),  before  it  becomes  ultimate, 
familiar,  and  ready  to  disclose  its  secrets.  So  we 
travelled  up  the  northward  road,  over  the  rolling 
prairie  where  gaillardias,  blue  lupine,  orange  paintbrush, 
lavender,  bergamot,  and  many  other  flowers  growing 
thickly  in  the  grass  made  the  treeless  slopes  one  vast 
expanse  of  magic  carpet,  and  the  blue  range  marched 
with  us,  wearing  its  upper  snowfields  like  shoulder 
mantles  and  thrusting  out  rock  buttresses  to  our  feet, 
red  and  brown  and  green  and  gold  with  the  colours  we 
were  soon  to  know  so  well. 

Now  and  then,  as  a  canon  opened  westward  toward 
the  main  ridge  of  the  Continental  Divide,  we  saw  a  lake 
embosomed,  and  now  and  then  arose  some  peak  of  pe- 
culiar dignity  which  captured  our  admiration.  It  is 
odd  how  potent  over  the  spirit  are  certain  contours. 
The  span  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  whispers  of  infinity  and 
holds  the  same  beauty  as  the  misty  view  down  the 
Lower  Bay  where  the  great  ships  go  out  to  sea.  The 
span  of  the  Williamsburg  Bridge  is  so  ugly  that  nobody 
looks  at  it  a  second  time.  Mountains  are  seldom  so 
ugly  as  that,  but  it  is  only  the  rare  summit  which 
sweeps  up  in  dome-like  serenity  and  seems  a  symbol  of 
the  infinite.  Such  a  mountain  is  old  Rising  Wolf,  be- 


The  snow-field  of  Chancy  Glacier  beating  like  surf 
against  the  cliff  walls 


GLACIER  PARK  49 

side  Two  Medicine  Lake  on  the  eastward  side  of  the 
range.  How  romantic  its  name,  to  the  American  who 
from  earliest  boyhood  has  thrilled  to  the  tales  of  trap- 
pers and  Indians !  Rising  Wolf  was  the  Indian  title  for 
Hugh  Monroe,  an  Englishman  born  in  Montreal  in 
1798,  and  probably  the  first  white  man  to  behold  these 
mountains.  He  was  a  trapper  for  the  Hudson  Bay 
Company,  married  a  Blackfoot  squaw,  and  spent  most 
of  his  long  life  in  this  region,  dying  in  1896  and  resting 
now  beside  the  Two  Medicine  River,  under  the  shadow 
of  that  great  red  rock  pile  which  bears  his  name,  a 
pyramid  such  as  no  Pharaoh  ever  dreamed.  Almost 
9,000  feet  in  height,  standing  free  of  the  range  to  its 
base,  four-square  and  self-sufficient,  with  the  curve  of 
infinity  over  its  doming  summit,  old  Rising  Wolf 
sentinels  the  Great  Divide,  the  Mousilauke  of  the 
Rockies,  the  promise  of  that  benignant  sweetness  and 
splendid  spaciousness  which  is  to  come. 

By  riding  thus  free  of  the  range,  too,  we  gained  an 
insight  into  its  topography.  Possibly  others  are  not 
like  me,  but  I  fancy  many  are.  For  my  part,  at  least,  I 
cannot  be  happy  in  a  new  country  till  I  know,  as  we 
Yankees  say,  "how  the  land  lays."  First  I  must  know 
which  is  north  and  which  is  south,  and  if  I  arrive  by 
night,  or  get  turned  about  on  the  train,  I  am  miserable 
till  the  compass  directions  are  straightened  out  in  my 
mind.  Once,  I  recall,  a  perverse  sun  rose  for  three  days 
in  the  west,  till  I  got  a  map  and  went  carefully  over  my 


50    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

line  of  approach.  Next  I  must  know  which  way  the 
water  flows,  and  get  the  feel  of  the  division  ridges,  the 
contour  of  the  country.  Many  a  time  after  riding  in 
a  motor  car  over  a  new  region,  I  have  been  miserable 
until  I  could  walk  a  few  miles,  to  catch  from  my  own 
exertions  the  sense  of  rise  and  dip,  to  explore  with  a  quiet 
eye  the  valley  ramifications.  Hence  the  long  ride  up 
beside  the  Lewis  Range  was,  for  me,  a  necessary  in- 
troduction. I  was  getting  my  bearings.  I  was  seeing 
for  myself  the  truth  of  what  the  literal  Park  folders  had 
told  me. 

Both  the  great  northwestern  prairie  and  the  area  now 
split  by  mountain  ranges  were  once  lake  or  sea  bottom. 
By  some  pressure  on  the  earth's  crust  a  great  crack  was 
formed,  and  one  edge  of  the  crust  came  up  over  the 
other,  sliding  eastward  from  twelve  to  fourteen  miles. 
In  Glacier  Park  it  is  called  the  Lewis  Overthrust.  As 
this  crust  was  thousands  of  feet  thick,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  a  vast  line  of  precipice  was  formed,  exposing  every 
strata  of  soil  and  rock  deposited  during  untold  ages  be- 
fore. Behind  this  precipice,  for  many  miles,  was  the 
hump  made  by  the  overlapping  earth  crust.  Untold 
ages  since  this  upheaval  have  broken  down  this  preci- 
pice and  carved  this  hump.  Melting  snows  have  made 
vast  erosion  valleys.  Frost  and  storm  have  swept 
down  shale  slides  into  heaps  at  the  base,  the  ice  masses 
of  the  glacial  age  ground  out  punch  bowls  or  cirques,  and 
excavated  canons.  But  even  to  the  casual  eye  the  line 


GLACIER  PARK  51 

of  the  Overthrust  is  still  visible  to-day,  a  vast,  broken, 
pitted  wall  of  petrified  earth  crust,  strata  after  strata  of 
pink  and  gray  and  brown  and  green  and  white  and  red 
stone  laying  their  parallels  one  above  the  other  up  the 
face  of  precipices,  with  the  abrupt  head  wall  of  the 
Continental  Divide  at  the  end  of  every  erosion  canon, 
shooting  straight  up  three  or  four  thousand  feet  to  the 
castellated,  knifeblade  summit  ridge  where  only  the 
goats  and  eagles  dwell. 

Up  one  of  these  canons  we  turned  at  last,  climbing  to 
a  beautiful  sheet  of  milky  green  water  in  an  evergreen 
frame,  and  bearing  the  silly  name  of  Lake  McDermott. 
Here,  on  its  shore,  was  a  great  hotel.  Standing  at  our 
window  in  this  hotel,  at  sunset,  we  looked  out  across  the 
milky  green  lake  and  its  dark  fringes  of  firs  to  the 
pyramid  of  Sharps  Peak  towering  over  us.  Behind 
that,  to  left  and  right,  we  saw  the  vast  sawtooth  cliffs 
of  the  Divide,  holding  to  the  south  the  snows  of  Grin- 
nell  Glacier  high  on  its  shoulders  and  then  leaping  up  to 
the  lofty  rock  ridgepole  of  Gould  Mountain,  feathery 
white  now  with  a  fresh  fall  of  snow,  on  the  north 
climbing  to  the  blue-gray  pyramid  of  Mount  Wilbur 
and  then  curving  in  a  magnificent  circle  of  castellated 
ridges  around  the  hole  where  Iceberg  Lake  lay  hidden. 
Over  them  all  was  a  sweet  sunset  sky  flecked  with  every 
tint  of  mother-of-pearl.  The  green  lake,  the  dark  firs, 
the  stupendous  nakedness  of  rock,  and  yet  the  sweet, 
clear  calmness  of  the  whole  composition,  was  such  a 


52    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

combination  as  we  had  never  experienced  in  the  high 
hills,  at  once  awesome  and  benignant.  Later,  as  we 
came  to  know  these  mountains  as  our  friends  and  com- 
rades, we  knew  that  effect  to  be  the  soul  of  Glacier 
Park. 

When  you  mount  your  horse  for  your  first  day  on  the 
trail  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  you  feel  a  Columbus  em- 
barking for  the  Unknown  which  calls  you  deeper  into  the 
shadow  of  those  towering  cliffs.  You  are  intoxicated 
with  the  air,  lured  by  the  summons  of  the  high  places. 
Put  a  boy  in  a  pasture,  and  he  makes  for  the  top  of  the 
largest  bowlder.  Go  into  Glacier  Park,  and  your  feet 
itch  for  the  upland  passes.  And  if,  by  chance,  you  are 
not  a  horseman  (or  horsewoman),  your  first  day's 
emotions  are  likely  to  be  somewhat  complicated.  Your 
cowboy  guide,  who  knows  no  more  of  mercy — so  the 
woman  declares  who  is  sitting  a  horse  for  the  first 
time — than  he  knows  of  the  names  of  the  peaks  or  the 
wild  flowers  (and  that  is  very  little!),  sets  off  at  a  brisk 
trot  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  and  his  motley 
cavalcade  come  bouncing  along  behind  him  strewing 
hairpins  by  the  way.  But  no  trot  lasts  long  in  Glacier 
Park.  Set  out  whither  you  will,  a  grade  awaits  you  that 
pulls  your  horse  down  to  a  walk,  a  patient,  weary  walk 
carefully  calculated  to  take  you  as  close  to  the  abrupt 
edge  of  the  narrow  trail,  where  it  creeps  around  a 
precipitous  slope,  as  it  is  possible  to  go  without  falling 
off.  Women  give  up  their  ancient  prerogative  of 


GLACIER  PARK  53 

screaming  after  an  hour  or  two,  in  sheer  weariness  (all 
but  the  "womanly  woman,"  who  keeps  it  up  for  a 
day),  a  set  expression  of  terrified  resignation  taking  the 
place  of  oral  appeal.  Always,  here,  as  in  other  moun- 
tains, the  first  few  miles  of  a  trail  are  through  timber, 
with  only  occasional  glimpses  between  the  tree  trunks 
of  the  peaks  beyond,  standing  up  now  in  the  morning 
light,  at  evening,  on  the  return  journey,  taking  the  rose 
of  sunset  on  their  snow  caps.  A  mountain  summit  seen 
through  the  columnar  aisles  of  a  forest,  however,  its 
lower  slopes  screened  out,  rises  with  an  isolated  majesty 
against  the  sky,  ethereal  and  alone.  Up  the  first  few 
miles  of  the  trail  it  beckons  you,  down  the  last  few  it 
bids  farewell. 

But  it  was  when  we  broke  out  of  timber  into  a  glimpse 
of  our  first  upland  meadow  that  I  knew  I  was  lost,  I  was 
a  slave  forever  to  the  Rocky  Mountains.  The  sirens 
were  singing  beside  the  path,  little  brooks  of  ice  water 
tumbling  down  from  the  snowfields  just  above.  Upon 
a  cliff  sat  the  Lorelei,  and  combed  her  hair  of  spun 
silver,  which  came  streaming  down  the  dripping  ledge  of 
red  and  green  and  purple  rock — and  she,  too,  was  sing- 
ing. At  her  feet  grew  yellow  columbine,  blue  lark- 
spur, lupine,  and  false  forget-me-not.  In  her  hand  she 
held  a  dark  red  monkey  flower.  Over  her,  dwarfed  like 
a  print  by  Hiroshige,  a  twisted,  limber  pine  flaunted  its 
pink  cone  buds.  And  she  looked  up  to  a  towering  cliff 
wall  three  thousand  feet  high,  and  she  looked  down  over 


54    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  trail  deep  into  a  rich  glade  carpeted  with  green 
grass,  a  carpet  pricked  with  golden  dog-tooth  violets,  on 
which  snow  patches  lay  like  great  bear  rugs  and  ever- 
greens in  groups  were  the  figures  forming  for  a  minuet. 
This  glade  rose  in  a  series  of  terraces,  and  over  each 
terrace  poured  the  white  cascade  of  a  brook.  The  last 
terrace  led  to  Iceberg  Lake,  which  we  now  could  see  ahead 
of  us,  lying  at  the  base  of  a  vast  semicircle  of  naked 
rock,  a  precipice  four  thousand  feet  from  the  glacier 
at  the  foot  to  the  castellated  battlements  which 
cut  against  the  sky,  red  its  predominant  colour,  a  great 
smash  in  the  face,  an  astonishing  revelation  in  one  sheer 
jump  of  the  Great  Divide — and  it  frowning  down  upon 
a  meadow  starred  with  violets,  where  fir  trees  were  the 
stately  figures  in  a  minuet,  where  little  ice-water  rills 
sang  seductively,  where  sky-blue  forget-me-nots  looked 
up  from  the  crannies  and  columbines  nodded  in  a  wan- 
dering wind!  There  is  nothing  wonderful  in  the  fact 
that  we  moulded  snowballs  in  our  shirt  sleeves  by  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  which  in  mid-July  was  still  a  sheet  of 
snow-covered  ice,  nor  chopped  up  its  frozen  greenness 
to  make  our  iced  tea.  The  wonder  is  this  conjunction 
of  the  stupendous  with  the  delicate,  the  Grand  Canon 
with  something  even  softer,  greener,  and  more  in- 
timately alluring  than  the  Berkshires  or  the  Lake 
Country.  The  dog-tooth  violets  come  up  as  fast  as  the 
drifts  disappear;  many  an  impatient  one  we  found 
blossoming  Bravely  through  two  inches  of  snow,  in  fact; 


GLACIER  PARK  55 

and  they  sometimes  star  the  ground  for  acres,  a  veritable 
cloth  of  gold,  at  the  feet  of  Dantean  shale  piles,  frown- 
ing red  precipices,  or  hanging  masses  of  the  snow  that 
never  melts.  When  they  are  gone,  sister  flowers  take 
their  place.  Always  there  is  bloom  and  colour,  al- 
ways the  soft  tinkle  of  water  and  the  wine  of  a  wander- 
ing wind. 

All  days  are  not  fair  in  the  Park,  of  course,  though  the 
proportion  to  one  who  has  been  accustomed  to  the 
White  Mountains  or  the  Adirondacks  seems  very  high, 
and  it  is  strange  at  first  to  waken  morning  after  morn- 
ing and  find  the  daybreak  rosy  on  cloudless  summits, 
while  a  good  camera  will  pick  out  the  pattern  of  a  man's 
clothes  half  a  mile  away,  so  brilliantly  sharp  is  the 
atmosphere.  Clouds  do  come,  however,  settling  down 
in  a  vast,  dun  pall  over  the  Divide,  and  forming  a  rest- 
less roof  over  the  canoned  amphitheatres  which  lie  in  the 
curves  of  this  majestic  wall.  On  such  days  the  colour 
seems  to  go  out  of  the  rocks,  only  a  streak  of  dull  red 
here  and  there  remaining.  The  wild-flower  carpet  loses 
its  vividness.  The  snowfields  look  sooty  and  cold. 
You  are  chiefly  aware  of  the  great  precipices  hemming 
you  in  and  shooting  up  into  the  driving  scud,  their  tops 
invisible,  prison  walls  of  a  height  that  might  be  infinite. 
The  spirit,  on  such  a  day,  is  unspeakably  depressed,  and 
yet  there  is  a  strange  joy,  too,  the  joy  of  facing  anything 
in  Nature  so  seemingly  stupendous. 

For  two  such  days  we  waited,  impatient,  for  the 


56    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

clouds  to  lift  from  the  Great  Divide  that  we  might  cross 
by  one  of  the  high  passes.  Far  to  the  eastward  we  could 
see  the  sun  on  the  prairie,  and  at  length  we  decided  that 
by  the  same  token  it  might  be  shining  over  the  range, 
so  at  noon  we  set  out,  with  a  pack  train  and  guides — 
twenty  horses  in  all — up  the  switchbacks  of  the  head 
Wall  which  leads  to  Swift  Current  Pass.  There  are  no 
gaps  in  the  Continental  Divide;  a  pass  is  merely  a 
col,  as  low  as  possible,  between  two  higher  summits. 
Swift  Current  Pass,  just  above  a  hanging  glacier  of  the 
same  name,  is  more  than  seven  thousand  feet  above  sea 
level;  but  at  this  point  the  Divide  is  perhaps  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  wide,  not,  as  in  many  places,  a  knifeblade 
ridge.  We  went  up  the  steep  switchbacks,  past  the 
glacier,  into  a  dense  cloud,  the  horses  picking  their  way 
carefully  over  extensive  snowfields,  and  entered  a 
small  level  meadow,  ground  squirrels  chattering  at  us 
and  a  ptarmigan  hen  and  her  chicks,  the  colour  of  the 
rocks,  scattering  away  into  the  low  shrubbery.  We 
crossed  the  meadow  to  the  western  side,  and  suddenly, 
without  warning,  we  looked  out  under  the  cloud,  across 
ten  miles  of  hole,  to  the  Livingstone  Range,  which 
stood  up  nobly  in  full  sunlight,  peak  after  peak  of  mys- 
terious blue,  snowcapped  and  snowmantled,  stretching 
northward  out  of  sight!  Directly  opposite  stood 
Heaven's  Peak,  which,  when  snow-blanketed,  has  real 
Alpine  quality.  The  whole  western  range,  in  fact, 
more  nearly  merits  the  term  Alpine  than  the  eastern, 


GLACIER  PARK  57 

but  only  so  long  as  the  snowcaps  last.  Between  us  and 
Heaven's  Peak  was  a  hole  of  unfathomed  depth.  As 
we  began  to  descend,  realizing  that  the  storm  had  been 
entirely  centred  over  the  crest  of  the  Continental 
Divide,  we  could  see  into  this  hole,  which  was  disclosed 
as  a  double  canon  entirely  wooded  with  huge  evergreen 
timber.  We  camped  that  night  in  the  clouds,  above  the 
tops  of  the  primeval  forest. 

The  next  morning  the  descent  began  to  the  bottom  of 
the  canon  between  the  two  ranges.  The  good  trail  had 
ceased.  Uncle  Sam  doesn't  care  what  becomes  of  you 
beyond  the  pass.  We  scrambled  down  three  thousand 
feet,  walking  our  horses  most  of  the  way  and  chopping 
out  fallen  logs,  getting  into  larger  and  larger  timber  as 
we  dropped.  This  forest  is  not  comparable,  of  course, 
to  the  stands  of  Oregon  fir  in  the  Cascades,  but  it  is  a 
splendid  wood,  none  the  less,  chiefly  white  pine,  fir  and 
tamarack,  averaging  at  least  sixty  feet  of  clear  stump 
before  a  limb  is  reached.  At  the  bottom  of  the  canon 
we  turned  up  Mineral  Creek  by  the  dim  trail  which 
leads  ultimately  to  Waterman  Lake  and  Canada,  a 
trail  known  of  old  to  the  smugglers,  and  plodded  on  for 
a  dozen  miles  through  the  forest,  seeing  no  wild  thing, 
hearing  no  birds,  hardly  glimpsing  even  the  walls  on 
either  side.  Then,  in  late  afternoon,  we  began  to  go  up 
again.  We  saw  the  Continental  Divide  above  the  trees 
to  the  east.  To  the  west  we  saw  the  cliffs  of  Flattop 
Mountain,  the  long,  low  ridge  which  splits  the  canon. 


58    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

The  timber  rapidly  stunted  till  we  were  in  open  groves 
of  balsam  only  twenty  feet  high  but  at  least  fifty  years 
old.  We  began  to  cross  little  silvery  brooks  of  ice 
water  every  hundred  feet.  The  horses  were  weary  and 
the  women  were  dangling  on  the  horns  of  their  saddles 
when  we  reached  our  camping  place,  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  Divide  where  it  dips  to  six  thousand  feet  and  crosses 
from  the  western  range  to  the  eastern.  The  horses 
were  turned  loose  and  driven  up  toward  the  snowfields 
to  graze,  their  herd  bells  tinkling.  Tents  were  pitched, 
balsam  beds  cut,  and  supper  cooked.  The  total  ab- 
sence of  hard  wood  in  the  Park  makes  cooking  a  smoky 
and  difficult  task,  but  that  is  the  only  drawback  to 
camping  bliss.  Rills  of  purest  ice  water  ran  past  our 
tents  on  either  side,  the  lingering  northern  sunset 
painted  redder  the  red  rocks  of  the  Divide  to  the  east 
and  put  a  blush  on  the  snow-white  face  of  Heaven's 
Peak,  while  under  a  salmon  sky  to  the  south  all  the 
huddled  mountains  twenty  miles  or  more  away,  in- 
cluding the  precipices  of  Cannon  and  the  ten-thousand- 
foot  peak  of  Jackson,  were  like  burnished  billows  of 
gunmetal,  turning  slowly  to  amethyst.  No  one  thought 
of  the  War,  no  one  missed  his  evening  paper.  In  this 
exquisite  solitude,  while  night  stole  over  the  eastern 
bulwark  and  the  brooks  whispered  in  the  cool  dark,  and 
from  the  ghostly  snowfield  far  above  us  the  tinkle  of 
our  herd  bells  dropped  faintly  down,  it  was  utterly  im- 
possible to  bring  the  mind  to  think  of  "civilization  "  and 


GLACIER  PARK  59 

its  complexities.  At  nine  o'clock  the  camp  was  still.  I 
heard  one  lone  coyote  barking  just  before  I  dropped  to 
sleep. 

The  next  day  we  climbed  a  peak  that  promised,  ac- 
cording to  the  topographical  map,  a  splendid  prospect. 
A  rope  was  necessary  on  part  of  the  climb,  over  slippery 
snowfields  and  around  certain  transverse  ledges  of 
treacherous  shale  rock,  but  probably  only  the  academic 
climber  is  interested  in  such  details,  unless  the  climb  is 
made  up  some  peak  of  peculiar  fame  or  danger.  Every 
step  of  the  first  conquest  of  the  Matterhorn  is,  of  course, 
an  epic!  Our  first  objective  was  a  col  in  the  Divide, 
on  the  eastward  side  of  which  we  knew  lay  Chancy 
Glacier.  We  reached  this  col  in  two  hours,  finding  the 
Divide  here  but  a  few  feet  across.  On  the  other  side  we 
looked  directly  down  on  the  glacier,  now  but  a  vast,  un- 
broken snowfield  which  swept  against  the  red  cliff 
walls  in  long  white  slides  like  surf  beating  up  the  coast  of 
Maine.  Half  a  mile  out  the  glacier  dropped  off  into 
space,  and  beyond  the  rim  we  could  see  the  canon  of  the 
Belly  River  holding  in  its  depths  a  lake  of  iceberg  green 
which  turned  to  vivid  lilac  when  a  cloud  shadow 
crossed  it.  North  of  the  canon,  and  not  more  than  ten 
or  a  dozen  miles  from  our  perch,  .rose  the  grim  rock 
pyramid  of  Mount  Cleveland,  10,500  feet,  the  highest 
mountain  in  the  Park,  though  far  from  the  most  impres- 
sive. To  the  northeast,  beyond  the  canon  mouth,  was 
the  infinite  ocean,  still  and  level  to  the  horizon  a  hun- 


60    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

dred  miles  away.  Reason  told  us  it  was  the  Alberta 
prairie,  but  the  illusion  of  the  sea  was  too  perfect  to 
give  reason  a  voice. 

From  this  col  four  of  us  kept  on  up  the  peak,  now 
but  a  steep  naked  pyramid  of  shale  stone,  with  ex- 
quisite tiny  gardens  of  pink  moss  campion,  mountain 
saxifrage,  mist  maidens,  rosewort,  and  other  Alpine 
flowers  half  hidden  in  sheltered  crannies.  We  could  see 
nothing  but  the  sky  as  we  climbed,  and  the  rock  in  our 
faces.  The  prospect  we  sought  remained  for  a  climax 
when  the  apex  was  reached.  In  his  address,  "In  Praise 
of  Omar,"  John  Hay  tells  how  he  rose  one  morning  in 
camp  on  the  summit  of  the  Great  Divide  and  heard  a 
frontiersman  quoting: 

'  'Tis  but  a  tent  where  takes  his  one  day's  rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest; 
The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  guest." 

The  guide  of  our  party  was  a  frontiersman,  a  lover  of 
this  mountain  world,  blue-eyed,  lean,  taciturn,  efficient. 
Another  member  was  a  well-known  mountaineer  and 
mountain  lover,  one]of  the  few  men  who  have  ever  scaled 
the  north  wall  of  Mount  Baker.  Another  was  an 
eastern  artist.  The  fourth  member  has  known  the 
Rubaiyat  by  heart  for  twenty  years,  and  is  not  un- 
acquainted with  other  exalted  expressions  of  emotion. 
But,  as  our  faces  came  up  over  the  crest,  as  we  crouched 


GLACIER  PARK  61 

in  the  high  wind  on  the  summit  rock  no  larger  than  a 
good-sized  clothes  closet  and  faced  the  first  shock  of 
that  prospect,  not  one  of  us  quoted  Omar  Khayyam. 
Not  one  of  us  gave  expression  to  an  exalted  emotion  in 
supposedly  fitting  words.  On  the  contrary,  what  each 
of  us  said  is  unfit  for  print.  We  swore!  Each  accord- 
ing to  his  capacity,  we  swore — reverently,  heartily, 
though  with  gasping  breath,  and  the  frontiersman  was 
the  most  expressive.  There  are  moments  when  formal 
rhetoric  does  not  seem  to  fit! 

To  our  right,  on  a  high  shelf  of  the  Divide,  hung  a 
small  glacier,  feeding  a  white  stream  which  leaped  out 
over  the  precipice  and  vanished.  Directly  under  our 
feet  the  mountain  fell  away  in  a  clean  drop  of  at  least 
three  thousand  feet,  so  that  we  lay  on  our  bellies  in  the 
high  wind,  to  toss  a  stone  over.  Far  beneath  us,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hole,  lay  a  peaceful  green  lake.  Out  of 
this  lake,  on  the  other  side,  rose  the  steep  debris  pile 
from  the  sides  of  Mount  Merritt,  and  then  the  sheer 
gray  and  brown  battlements  of  the  mountain  itself,  so 
steep  that  not  even  a  snowfield  could  cling  to  them,  up, 
up,  to  the  level  of  our  faces,  and  then  up  still  another 
thousand  feet  to  the  almost  ten  thousand-foot  castel- 
lated summit,  a  mile-long  ridge  of  battlements.  No 
house,  no  trail,  no  human  thing  was  visible  from  this 
perch — only  a  vast  hole  into  the  earth  with  a  sweet 
green  lake  at  the  bottom;  only  rearing  precipices  and 
distant,  tumbled  peaks  and  glaciers,  and  far  off  the 


62    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

green  ocean  of  the  prairie.  There  was  no  sound  but 
the  rushing  of  the  summit  wind  and  the  faint  roar  of 
water  falling  three  thousand  feet. 

Presently  we  suggested  to  the  artist  that  he  make  a 
sketch,  but  he  sadly  shook  his  head. 

"It  can't  be  done!"  he  answered. 

There  are  times  when  Man  is  humble. 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  by  mountaineers  about 
the  joys  of  climbing.  The  joys  of  climbing  are  often  a 
good  deal  like  those  of  heavy  dumb-bell  exercises.  In 
Glacier  Park  you  want  to  sing  the  joys  of  coming  back 
to  camp  in  the  afternoon  and  loafing  on  a  bed  of  balsam 
boughs,  with  your  tent  flap  open  wide  to  the  view  of 
lupines  and  violets  in  the  meadow  and  distant,  snow- 
capped peaks  beyond.  You  want  to  sing  the  joys  of 
fragrant  food  and  steaming  tea,  of  twilight  slowly 
gathering  as  though  so  fair  a  day  were  reluctant  to  de- 
part. To  ascend  a  peak,  to  see  the  tumbled  world  at  its 
wildest;  to  sit  again  in  camp,  tired  and  warmed  with 
food,  to  hear  with  one  ear  the  camp  cook  telling  bear 
stories,  with  the  other  the  bird-like  calls  of  the  ground 
squirrels;  to  smell  the  resinous  wood  smoke  and  the 
balsams,  to  catch  now  and  then  the  tinkle  of  little  ice- 
water  brooks  from  the  snowfields,  to  watch  the  sunset 
blush  on  Heaven's  Peak  and  the  stars  come  slowly  out 
above  the  battlements  of  the  Divide — well,  that  is,  I  fear, 
to  spoil  you  for  any  other  life.  The  little  ice- water 
brooks  sing  a  siren  song  in  the  uplands  starred  with 


GLACIER  PARK  63 

violets,  and  woe  to  him  whose  ears  have  heard!  He 
can  never  be  quite  happy  again  east  of  the  Great 
Divide. 

So  I  might  continue  the  tale  of  the  days  when  we 
drove  our  pack  train  through  the  Park,  over  high  passes, 
across  precipitous  snowfields  where  a  slip  would  have 
meant  death,  but  too  confident  now  on  our  horses  to 
worry,  camping  by  glacier  lakes  of  milky  green,  scramb- 
ling over  goat  trails  on  the  backbone  of  the  continent, 
cooking  our  luncheon  in  gardens  where  by  careful  count 
as  many  as  thirty  wild  flowers  grew  in  a  space  the  size 
of  an  ordinary  room — chalice  cups  like  white  anemone 
Japonica,  lupine,  larkspur,  pink  spiraea,  orange  paint- 
brush, false  forget-me-not,  columbines,  tiny  twin  flow- 
ers, and  the  stately  spikes  of  the  Indian  basket  grass 
like  an  army  with  banners.  But  the  names  of  the  hills 
and  passes  would  mean  little  to  the  reader  who  has  not 
seen  them,  though  to  one  who  has,  each  name  is  a 
magic  invocation,  bringing  the  memory  of  some  splen- 
did rock  pile,  some  alluring  meadow,  some  campfire 
doused  with  wistful  reluctance.  "Beyond  the  Alps  lies 
Italy  ";  but  beyond  Gunsight  Pass  lies  Logan's  Pass,  and 
beyond  that  another,  and  beyond  that  another.  The 
range  is  endless,  and  the  image  of  tumbled  peaks  and 
magic  meadows,  each  with  its  own  individual  charm, 
stretching  into  the  north,  into  the  south,  mile  after 
hundred  mile,  captures  the  imagination. 

Two  names,  however,  I  cannot  forego  to  mention,  one 


64    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  name  of  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  rock  pile  on 
the  continent,  the  other  of  the  most  beautiful  meadow, 
the  meadow  where  Pegasus  must  once  have  browsed 
and  the  white  feet  of  Aphrodite  twinkled  on  the  grass. 
Going-to-the-Sun  Mountain,  by  some  happy  miracle, 
bears  a  name  that  is  worthy  of  it.  It  rises  abrupt  and 
sheer  out  of  the  green  mirror  of  St.  Mary  Lake,  five 
thousand  feet  of  naked  wall  from  the  lake  shore,  its  sum- 
mit almost  ten  thousand  above  sea  level.  It  is  devoid 
of  timber,  even  of  visible  vegetation,  and  loses  its  snow 
early.  In  colour  it  is  gray  flushed  with  pink,  and  from 
the  lake  shows  as  an  almost  perfect  pyramid  with  the 
apex  removed  making  a  level  summit.  Viewed,  how- 
ever, from  up  the  canon,  its  shape  is  totally  different. 
Then  its  sides  are  far  more  precipitous,  its  summit 
wider,  and  as  the  low  afternoon  sun  strikes  along  its 
great  buttressed  flank  vast  masses  of  lavender  shadow 
and  thousand-foot  high  lights  mould  it  into  an  archi- 
tectural structure  of  ethereal  solidity,  a  vast  cathedral 
of  the  primeval  earth  spirit. '  Some  day  its  name  will 
be  famous  among  mountains. 

Piegan  Meadow !  All  the  morning  we  had  plodded  up 
the  long  trail  over  Piegan  Pass,  at  first  directly  under 
and  then  across  the  canon  from  the  absolutely  precipi- 
tous wall  of  Gould  Mountain  where  a  silver  waterfall  was 
descending  for  three  thousand  feet,  like  the  hair  of 
Melisande,  its  soft  thunder  windborne  to  our  ears.  We 
crossed  the  summit  in  deep  snow,  amid  a  jumble  of  naked 


GLACIER  PARK  65 

shale  heaps  like  a  Dore  dream.  We  descended,  long 
past  the  noon  hour,  under  a  hot  sun,  by  a  trail  which 
was  dug  into  a  shale  slide — a  half  hour  to  reach  the 
little  figures  which  we  saw  plodding  up,  even  their 
faces  distinct  a  mile  away,  another  half  hour  to  reach 
the  bottom  of  the  shale,  where  the  limber  pines  began 
and  the  smell  of  ice- water  rills  was  good  in  the  horses' 
nostrils.  We  swung  at  a  trot  around  the  base  of  a 
precipice — and  the  meadow  lay  before  us. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  mile  wide,  a  deep  cup  between 
beetling  cliffs  which  held  glaciers  in  their  upper  pockets. 
On  the  southerly  edge  it  dropped  off  into  space.  It  was 
carpeted  with  lush,  emerald  grass,  plentifully  studded 
with  gnarled,  Japanese-like  limber  pines  gay  with  red 
cone  buds,  sprinkled  everywhere  with  nodding,  golden, 
dog-tooth  violets,  and  criss-crossed  with  tiny  rills  of 
ice  water  from  the  patches  of  white  snow,  rills  which 
sparkled  and  flashed  silver  in  the  sun.  But  that  was 
not  all.  Looking  out  over  the  green  and  gold  carpet, 
beneath  the  frame  of  some  twisted  pine  branch,  you 
gazed  across  the  hole  where  the  meadow  disappeared  in 
space,  and  ten  miles  away,  at  the  end  of  the  vista,  rose 
serenely  the  ten  thousand  feet  of  Mount  Jackson,  a 
pyramid  of  white  and  blue,  with  the  great  snow  mantle 
of  Blackfeet  Glacier  glistening  on  its  shoulder.  Piegan 
Meadow!  It  has  no  rival  in  mountain  loveliness.  The 
hour  was  perilously  late  when  we  poured  the  nectar  from 
one  of  the  ice- water  rills  on  our  campfire  and  heard  the 


66    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

embers  sizzle,  saddest  of  sounds  when  the  camp  has  been 
a  happy  one.  We  paused  at  the  edge,  looking  down  into 
the  dark  forest  far  below  us,  where  already  the  evening 
shadows  were  gathering.  Behind,  in  the  meadow,  the 
sun  was  still  bright;  the  yellow  lily  bells  of  the  dog- 
tooth violets  were  nodding  in  a  vagrant  wind;  we  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  the  little  brooks  that  flow  softly 
over  grass.  I  never  took  a  downward  step  with  more 
reluctance. 

I  am  back  in  the  East  now,  but  I  cannot  forget  that 
magic  meadow  of  green  and  gold  on  Piegan  Pass,  nor  a 
certain  campfire  under  Rising  Wolf,  nor  the  evening 
shadows  on  the  noble  flanks  of  Going-to-the-Sun,  nor  the 
faint,  far  thunder  of  waterfalls  in  the  night,  nor  the  siren 
song  of  the  little  ice- water  brooks  in  the  uplands  starred 
with  violets,  nor  the  vast  rock  walls  which  make  you 
humble  in  your  flush  of  health  and  happiness. 

There  was  a  small  boy  in  our  party  who,  on  his  return 
to  his  home  in  the  Berkshires,  took  a  long  look  at  Mount 
Everett,  at  all  the  hills  about  his  dwelling,  at  the  pas- 
tures and  ploughed  fields,  and  then  remarked  sadly: 
"Father,  this  is  practically  a  prairie!" 

I  know  exactly  how  he  felt. 


CHAPTER  V 


WHERE  the  milky  green  waters  of  the  Columbia 
River  roll  steadily  or  churn  into  impatient  rapids  south- 
westward  in  mid- Washington,  looking  for  an  opening  in 
the  great  Cascade  Range  that  they  may  break  through 
to  the  Pacific,  lies  a  land  not  many  years  ago  a  desert, 
but  now  producing  magnificent  apples,  apricots,  and 
cherries  from  its  one-time  seemingly  hopeless  soil.  It  is 
a  narrow  land  between  high,  basaltic  cliffs  and  jagged 
mountain  walls,  into  which  the  river  has  cut  still 
deeper,  a  land  of  naked  rock,  of  gray  volcanic  dust  and 
green  sage  brush,  an  arid  land  for  all  the  water  surging 
by,  water  almost  the  exact  colour  of  the  sage.  Before 
man  came  the  landscape  was  forbidding,  dismal,  a 
thing  of  rock  nakedness,  of  sage-green  and  dusty  gray. 
Only  the  eternal  sweep  of  the  great  river  and  the 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  far  blue  mountains  whitened 
with  snow  redeemed  it  from  the  sense  of  some  primal 
curse.  Then  man  arrived,  to  build  irrigation  basins  up 
in  the  hills  where  the  winter  snows  lay  late,  to  run 
pipe  lines  down  to  the  flats  of  gray  volcanic  ash — and 

67 


68    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  desert  was  no  more.  Acre  after  acre  blossomed  and 
bore  fruit,  towns  sprang  up,  the  smoke  of  homes  as- 
cended from  the  midst  of  each  ten-acre  square  of  green 
trees  and  alfalfa  which  now  covered  the  floor  of  the 
valley  like  a  vast  checkerboard.  There,  where  the 
oldest  orchard  boasts  but  a  scant  thirty  years,  its  trees 
so  far  as  age  is  concerned  but  mere  striplings  beside  the 
orchards  of  New  England — though  in  actual  growth  the 
disparity  is  hardly  apparent,  thanks  to  the  tremendous 
fertility  of  volcanic  ash  and  humus — is  now  a  new  in- 
dustry, a  new  community  of  agricultural  pioneers  who 
have  made  the  apple  a  work  of  art. 

They  have  done  it  with  the  aid  of  the  mountain 
snows,  with  the  aid  of  the  mountain  barrier  which  keeps 
off  the  killing  winds  of  Winter,  which  guards  from  frost, 
which  seems  to  concentrate  the  long  summer  sunshine, 
above  all  with  the  aid  of  the  volcanic  ash  once  belched 
from  Baker  and  Tacoma  (or  Rainier),  from  Glacier  Peak 
and  Adams,  no  doubt  from  the  vast  mountain  which 
ages  long  ago  towered  20,000  feet  over  the  hole  which 
now  holds  Crater  Lake  in  Oregon.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
the  pioneers  of  Wenatchee  and  the  Columbia  River 
fruit  bottoms  lift  up  their  eyes  unto  the  hills  and  look 
with  affection  on  the  blue  and  white  pyramids  against 
the  west. 

Their  towns  are  not  yet  beautiful;  they  are  rawly 
new,  and  it  takes  some  time  to  span  a  street  with  arch- 
ing foliage,  even  when  you  are  blest  with  five  per  cent. 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS  69 

of  potash  in  your  soil;  it  takes  some  time,  also,  to  build 
macadam  roads  across  miles  of  dusty  sage  brush, 
especially  when  your  own  two  hands  have  more  than 
they  can  do  in  your  personal  patch  of  orchard.  Yet  so 
much  has  been  accomplished  in  so  brief  a  span,  the  bus- 
tle of  energy  is  so  infectious,  there  are  so  few  indications 
anywhere  of  effort  abandoned,  that  the  visitor  from  the 
East  feels  himself  in  a  new  world.  Where  he  came  from 
the  orchards  are  often  more  beautiful,  with  the  beauty 
of  age,  not  infrequently  of  neglect.  The  old  New 
England  apple  tree,  with  its  jungle  of  suckers,  its  trunk 
gnarled  and  sprawling,  and  standing  with  its  fellows 
over  the  gray  stone  wall,  knee  deep  in  grass  and  butter- 
cups, is  a  beautiful  patriarch,  telling  tales  of  other 
days  and  generations  passed  away.  It  matches  the 
mouse-gray  barn  and  the  shabby  but  dignified  farm- 
house close  by,  the  rolling  fields  beyond,  the  languid 
haze  of  the  summer  day.  But  the  apples  of  Wenatchee 
grow  on  tall,  upstanding  trees  that  speak  in  every  line 
of  ceaseless  care  and  lateral  pruning;  between  the  rows 
flow  the  tiny  irrigation  ditches,  and  under  them 
flourishes  the  rich  alfalfa.  They  are  the  very  anti- 
thesis of  neglect,  as  they  surround  the  plain,  prac- 
tical, well-painted  farmhouse,  usurping  even  the  door- 
yard.  Here  is  no  languid  haze  on  a  summer  day;  heat, 
perhaps,  but  not  haze.  The  eye  goes  out  between  the 
rows  to  the  hollow  where  the  mighty  river  runs,  or  down 
the  valley  to  the  far  blue  rampart  of  the  Cascade  Range 


70    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

shining  with  snow,  or  up  to  the  ragged  basaltic  cliffs 
above  the  canon.  It  matters  not  what  picture  the 
vista  frames,  the  light  is  glittering  clear,  every  detail  of  a 
cliff  wall  five  miles  away  is  as  sharp  as  through  a  field 
glass,  the  air  is  vibrant  with  its  own  purity.  In  such  an 
orchard,  in  such  an  atmosphere,  the  mind  turns  toward 
the  future,  never  the  past.  This  is  the  land  of  what-is- 
to-be. 

But  a  great  river  does  not  roll  onward  mile  after  mile 
chafing  to  get  through  a  mountain  rampart,  biting  an 
ever  deeper  canon  into  the  basalt  rock  and  disclosing 
at  its  junction  with  confluent  streams  vistas  into  wild 
gorges  or  glimpses  of  lofty  summits,  snow-mantled, 
whence  those  tributaries  come,  without  luring  the 
traveller  to  climb  the  ragged  walls  and  go  exploring,  to 
leave  the  river  for  the  hills.  So  we  were  lured,  and  so 
we  found  Lake  Chelan,  said  by  some  to  be  the  most 
beautiful  lake  on  the  North  American  continent.  I 
have  not  seen  all  the  lakes  on  the  North  American 
continent,  so  I  make  no  comparisons  myself,  content  to 
state  that  it  is  the  most  beautiful  lake  I  ever  saw,  awake 
or  in  my  dreams. 

We  had  gone  northward  from  Wenatchee  up  the 
canon  of  the  Columbia,  the  walls  narrowing  in  upon  us, 
the  orchards  on  the  bank  growing  fewer  and  smaller. 
We  alighted  at  a  station  called  Chelan  Falls,  and  the 
train  went  on,  leaving  us  apparently  the  sole  occu- 
pants of  the  river  gorge.  The  sage-green  Columbia,  just 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS  71 

across  the  track,  was  gently  hissing,  with  that  peculiar 
noise  a  powerful  stream  makes  when  it  is  flowing 
very  rapidly  but  not  quite  over  rapids.  In  front  of  us 
the  rocky  cliff,  with  no  verdure  upon  it  except  the  in- 
evitable sage  brush,  rose  almost  precipitous;  but  we 
could  see  the  scar  of  a  road,  unf  enced,  which  descended 
from  the  top  in  a  series  of  switchbacks,  dug  out  of  the 
wall.  Down  the  road  a  motor  was  coming,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  a  cloud  of  dust.  A  few  moments  later  it 
pulled  up  at  the  platform,  dust  and  all.  There  was  a 
woman  at  the  wheel,  a  woman  who  should  have  been  the 
heroine  of  some  western  romance,  her  hands  tanned,  her 
shoulders  square,  her  eyes  alert,  her  face  extraordinarily 
good  to  look  upon.  But,  alas,  her  grammar  was  im- 
peccable, she  was  mistress  of  the  graces  of  sophisticated 
society  no  less  than  of  the  clutches  of  her  car!  With 
her  brown  hands  on  the  wheel,  we  crawled  up  the  cliff 
side  to  a  comparatively  level  plain  covered  with  gray 
dust  and  sage  brush,  and  stretching  a  few  miles  west- 
ward to  rolling  hills.  Over  this  plain  we  sped,  and  came 
to  a  little  town  on  the  shore  of  a  lake,  a  town  rawly  new 
and  busy,  like  all  the  others  in  this  forward-looking  land. 
Neither  was  the  lake  remarkable,  save  for  its  exquisite 
green  colour.  It  stretched  away  between  hilly  shores, 
and  appeared  to  vanish  around  a  headland.  The 
bounding  hills,  the  height,  perhaps,  of  those  around  Lake 
George,  but  much  less  precipitous,  were  partially  tim- 
bered, partially  cleared  to  young  orchards  which  came 


72    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

down  to  the  water's  edge.  It  was  a  gentle,  somewhat 
pastoral  scene. 

"This,"  said  our  fair  driver,  "is  Lake  Chelan — or  a 
little  of  it." 

"Is  there  more?"  I  asked. 

She  smiled.  "In  the  West,"  she  said,  "there  is  al- 
ways more." 

We  abandoned  the  purr  of  the  automobile  for  the  un- 
muffled  cough  of  a  large  motor  boat,  and  put-put- 
putted  out  over  the  green  water,  a  much  more  vivid  green 
than  the  waters  of  the  Columbia  River,  holding  some- 
thing of  the  blue  of  the  sky  in  suffusion.  We  had  no 
knowledge  of  our  destination,  no  conception  of  what  we 
were  to  see;  adventurers  on  unknown  waters,  we  left 
the  dock  and  the  crude,  busy  little  town  behind,  sailing 
in  a  summer  sun  toward  the  gateway  of  hills  where 
the  lake  disappeared  northwestward.  But  we  were 
aware  of  a  cool,  fresh  wind  in  our  faces,  and  the  smell 
of  pure  water.  We  could  not  fail  to  note  the  extraor- 
dinary clarity  of  the  atmosphere,  in  which  we  could 
easily  detect  a  "rancher"  working  with  a  hoe  in  his 
newly  planted  orchard  of  young  trees  no  taller  than  he, 
though  the  shore  at  that  point  was  at  least  a  mile  away. 
We  could  even  see  the  sparkle  of  the  water  in  the  ditch, 
as  his  hoe  led  the  life-giving  moisture  down  between  the 
rows.  We  crowded  on  the  forward  deck,  and  set  our 
faces  to  the  wind. 

The  lake  did  not  increase  in  breadth;  it  remained 


seemingly  about  as  wide  as  the  Hudson  River  at  Tarry- 
town.  But  no  sooner  had  we  passed  around  the  first 
headland  than  we  saw  it  stretching  onward  for  many 
miles,  till  it  once  more  disappeared  around  a  still  loftier 
wooded  point.  It  may  have  been  ten  miles  from  the 
foot  of  the  lake  that  we  put  in  at  a  small  bay  where  a 
new  town  was  springing  up,  the  result  of  a  new  irrigation 
project.  The  hills  had  already  become  higher,  their 
sides  more  abrupt.  They  were  crowding  this  new,  shin- 
ing little  village  down  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  the 
orchards,  as  yet  only  squares  of  brown  earth  with 
polka  dots  of  frail  green  upon  them  where  the  young 
trees  were  flourishing,  were  pushing  bravely  up  the 
slopes  into  the  fir  timber,  clinging  to  every  sheltering 
shelf.  There  was  something  heroic  about  this  orchard 
town  on  the  very  outskirts  of  cultivation.  These  or- 
chards were  the  first-line  trenches  in  man's  battle  with 
the  soil.  Just  beyond  the  town  the  boundaries  of  the 
Chelan  National  Forest  began,  the  hills  arose  still  more 
abruptly,  there  was  no  foothold  for  the  orchardist.  He 
had  pressed  forward  as  far  as  he  could  go,  and  the 
Swiss  peasant's  herd  bells  tinkling  on  the  meadows 
under  snow  line,  so  celebrated  in  song  and  story,  are  no 
more  romantic  than  these  last  orchards  clinging  to  the 
mountainside  above  the  green  water  of  Lake  Chelan. 

When  our  boat  rounded  the  next  headland,  we  saw 
the  lake  still  stretching  northwestward,  but  no  longer  a 
jewel  in  a  pastoral  setting.  A  few  last  orchards,  the 


74    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

ultimate  outposts,  still  clung  to  the  precipitous  shores, 
but  for  the  most  part  these  shores  rose  too  abruptly 
from  the  water  to  give  any  foothold,  and  bared  ledges  of 
rock  began  to  crop  out,  crowned  with  spired  firs.  The 
wind,  drawing  down  the  lake,  was  churning  the  surface 
into  a  considerable  sea.  Ahead  of  us  loomed  a  superb 
portal  to  still-further-unseen  reaches  of  the  lake,  a 
natural  gateway  like  that  to  the  Highlands  of  the 
Hudson  between  Storm  King  and  the  Point,  but  with 
each  precipitous  mountain  forest-clad  and  devoid  of  any 
human  habitation,  and  rising  nearly  five  thousand  feet 
sharp  out  of  the  water.  Between  these  splendid  head- 
lands, sentinels  of  the  major  range  beyond,  Lake 
Chelan  stretched  its  dancing  green  pathway,  foam- 
flecked  and  sky-tinted,  whispering  of  magic  splendours 
yet  to  come. 

Once  you  have  entered  through  this  majestic  portal, 
you  have  left  the  lowland  world  behind,  the  world  of 
orchards  and  of  men,  of  roads  and  barns,  of  strife  and 
barter.  You  are  afloat  on  an  inverted  sky  in  the  heart 
of  the  primal  wilderness,  in  the  depths  of  the  tumbled 
mountains.  The  lake  grows  no  wider;  if  anything  it 
narrows.  But  it  stretches  onward  for  another  forty 
miles  between  two  unbroken  walls  of  naked  precipice 
and  fir-clad  slopes  rising  to  castellated  summits  of 
progressively  greater  height  till  the  snowfields  begin  to 
glitter  far  above  your  head  and  white  streams  begin  to 
flash  in  the  forest  and  leap  out  over  the  rocks.  The 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS    75 

depth  of  a  lake,  as  a  rule,  adds  little  to  pictorial  im- 
pressiveness.  But  the  case  is  otherwise  here.  Lake 
Chelan  is  sixteen  hundred  feet  deep,  which  means  that 
its  bottom  is  six  hundred  feet  below  sea  level.  As  you 
look  upon  the  abrupt  plunge  of  the  mountain  walls  into 
its  green  depths  and  realize  that  they  continue  their 
descent  below  the  surface  for  more  than  a  thousand  feet, 
the  imagination  is  staggered  with  the  slit  in  the  earth 
crust  this  Chelan  canon  must  have  been  before  it  was 
partially  filled  with  water.  For  nearly  forty  miles  it 
was  once  from  one  to  almost  three  thousand  feet  deeper 
than  the  Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado — and  still  is, 
could  we  see  to  the  bottom  of  this  green  mid-surface  on 
which  we  float.  At  any  point  of  the  shore  the  Maure- 
tania  could  throw  a  gang  plank  to  the  cliffs  and  never 
graze  her  keel.  Putting  in  close,  our  launch  took  us 
under  the  spray  of  waterfalls  and  beneath  hanging  rock 
gardens  of  lupine  and  paint  brush,  foxglove  and  goat's 
beard,  while  on  many  a  craggy  headland  some  storm- 
scarred  fir  flung  long  branches  southward  in  the  lee  of 
the  twisted  trunk,  its  northward  limbs  shaved  off  by 
wind  and  sleet. 

But  the  full  glory  of  Chelan  lies  not  in  its  depths  of 
green  water,  nor  in  its  upleaping  banks  which  slope  back 
a  thousand  feet  above  water  level  and  carry  mantles  of 
fir  up  to  the  seven-thousand-foot  timber  line.  Its  full 
glory  is  the  revelation  of  the  main  Cascade  Range  at 
the  head  of  the  vista,  a  procession  of  pyramidal  peaks 


76     GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

glittering  with  ice  and  snow,  which  come  out  of  the 
north,  pass  across  the  range  of  vision,  and  disappear  to 
the  south.  The  green  lane  of  the  lake  makes  directly  for 
them;  they  grow  nearer,  putting  off  their  blue  to  don  the 
grays  and  pinks  of  naked  rock,  the  different  textures  of 
glacier  ice  and  temporary  snowfield  becoming  more  and 
more  distinct.  At  the  last,  the  spur  peaks  which  bound 
the  lake  are  as  high  as  the  summits  of  the  Cascade 
Divide,  and  they,  too,  are  capped  with  the  eternal 
snows.  The  lake  ends  against  a  cliff  wall  adorned  with 
Indian  pictures  and  the  initials  of  the  inevitable 
American  vandals,  and  in  a  little  sedgy  meadow  beside 
the  cliff,  through  which  the  Stehekin  River  pours  in  its 
milky  waters  direct  from  the  high  glaciers.  Here  is 
journey's  end,  and  here,  the  last  bulwark  of  the  lake, 
Castle  Rock  springs  up  against  the  west,  rearing  its  fairy 
battlements  eight  thousand  feet  aloft  and  taking  the  sun- 
set in  rose  and  gold  long  after  the  twilight  shadows  have 
dusked  the  lapping  water  and  the  evening  lamps  are  lit. 
Again,  while  the  morning  mists  are  still  hovering 
wraiths  over  the  lake  or  cling  like  veils  to  the  Douglas 
firs  on  the  lower  slopes,  these  fairy  towers  catch  the 
rising  sun,  and  send  its  welcome  down  to  those  below. 

'•Full  many  a  morning  have  I  seen  the  sun 

Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye.     .     .     ." 

Inevitably  those  words  occur  to  you  as  the  sky- 
borne  rocks  blush  and  burn  with  salmon-rose  and  gold, 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS    77 

while  the  green  lake  beneath  is  a  dim,  quiet  mirror,  as 
if  the  breath  of  night  were  still  clouding  it.  If  on  the 
little  hills  of  England,  Shakespeare  could  find  immortal 
imagery,  what  heights  of  splendour  would  he  not 
have  scaled  could  he  have  seen  the  sunrise  over  Lake 
Chelan!  Or  would  he  have  been  dumb,  and  gone 
a-fishing?  Sometimes  it  is  not  the  largest  prospect,  nor 
indeed  the  largest  event,  which  evokes  the  magic 
utterance. 

The  entire  upper  water-shed  of  Lake  Chelan,  includ- 
ing so  much  of  the  main  Cascade  Range  as  feeds  the 
Stehekin  River,  to  the  summit  of  the  Divide,  is  a  na- 
tional forest,  which  means  that  the  region  is  threaded 
with  rangers'  trails  practical  for  horses.  The  name  of 
War  Creek  Pass  appealed  to  me.  It  was  a  person  de- 
luded by  love  who  asked :  "  What's  in  a  name?  "  There 
is  everything  hi  a  name.  Agnes  Falls,  which  the  map 
showed  me  descending  over  a  close  maze  of  contour 
intervals,  left  me  quite  cold  for  all  the  promised  drop. 
"David  Copperfield"  spoiled  the  name  Agnes  for  me 
many  years  ago.  But  War  Creek  Pass!  That  sug- 
gested something  rugged  and  difficult,  that  breathed 
the  romance  of  the  ancient  days  when  the  Indians  went 
over  the  range  by  this  route  to  attack  their  enemies 
to  the  north.  My  feet  should  climb  where  their 
moccasins  had  found  the  way,  and  I  would  look 
down  upon  the  same  world  they  looked  down  upon, 
for  man  as  yet  has  made  no  scar  on  this  tumbled 


78     GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

wilderness  of  peak  and  glacier.  The  horses  were 
brought  forth,  and  we  strung  out  in  single  file  for 
War  Creek  Pass. 

The  trail  for  several  miles  leads  sharply  upward 
through  the  peculiar  Cascade  forest — peculiar,  to  an 
Easterner,  because  it  is  at  once  meadow,  garden,  forest, 
and  rock  precipice.  The  trees,  for  the  most  part  great 
upstanding  Douglas  firs,  with  a  considerable  admixture 
of  cedar  and  some  hardwoods,  on  this  side  of  the  range 
do  not  grow  thickly  together  like  a  stand  of  eastern  pine 
or  hemlock.  The  forest  energy  seems  to  have  con- 
centrated into  single  specimens  often  a  hundred  feet 
apart,  which  rear  brown  trunks  for  fifty  or  seventy-five 
feet  without  a  limb.  In  our  eastern  woods  a  tree  so 
isolated  would  throw  lateral  branches,  and  we  develop 
no  such  shaggy  columnar  trunks  rising  from  steep 
lawns  of  grass,  their  feet  set  firm  in  beds  of  wild  flowers. 
Almost  the  first  garden  we  came  upon,  close  to  the 
water's  edge,  was  a  great  bed  of  foxgloves  on  either 
side  of  a  tiny  brook.  Every  year  in  my  garden  I  sow 
these  queenly  biennials,  transplanting  and  retransplant- 
ing  the  young  plants,  nursing  them  tenderly  through  the 
Winter,  and  deploring  their  later  tendency  to  throw  back 
to  magenta.  Yet,  in  this  wild  garden  beside  the  ice- 
water  brook,  self-sown  and  self-protected,  the  gorgeous 
spikes  were  growing  almost  six  feet  tall,  and  not  a 
magenta  one  in  the  lot!  Most  of  them  were  white, 
flecked  with  pink.  Their  stalks  were  thick  and  strong. 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS  79 

They  were  alike  the  envy  and  the  despair  of  at  least 
one  eastern  amateur. 

Close  to  the  foxgloves,  and  companioning  the  trail  for 
a  long  distance,  were  several  varieties  of  flowering 
shrubs,  now  (early  in  July)  in  full  bloom.  The  cap- 
berry  was  perhaps  the  most  conspicuous,  a  large  shrub 
with  numerous  blossoms  not  unlike  small  white  wild 
roses  in  appearance.  But  the  showy  goat's  beard  was 
scarcely  less  frequent,  a  bush  covered  with  white  bloom 
closely  resembling  spiraea.  As  the  trail  ascended  more 
and  more  sharply,  coming  out  now  and  then  on  a  dizzy 
ledge  far  over  the  water,  and  again  climbing  a  steep 
bank  of  the  powdered,  volcanic  soil  by  a  series  of  switch- 
backs, the  shrubs  began  to  drop  behind  and  the  lower 
wild  flowers  became  predominant,  purple  lupine,  sky- 
blue  larkspur,  and  the  flaming  orange-red  paint  brush 
being  the  most  conspicuous.  Both  the  lupine  and 
larkspur  are  known  as  annuals  in  our  eastern  gardens, 
but  they  do  not  reach  the  brilliance  of  colour  they 
achieve  in  this  volcanic  ash,  nor  do  we  find  them  spread 
like  bits  of  sky  in  every  forest  glade.  Above  all,  we  do 
not  plant  them — we  cannot  plant  them — in  happy  con- 
junction with  bright  orange  paint  brush  around  the  feet 
of  great  brown  fir  tree  columns,  with  a  glimpse  two 
thousand  feet  below  of  the  green  water  of  Lake  Chelan, 
and  a  vista  across  the  canon  hole  of  the  towering  walls  of 
Castle  Rock  and  a  dazzling  snowfield !  In  such  a  grove 
and  such  a  garden  we  let  our  horses  rest,  and  looked 


80    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

upon  the  scene.  The  bluish-purple  lupines  and  the 
flaming  paint  brush,  varying  in  colour  from  orange  to 
almost  pure  scarlet,  grew  in  luxurious  profusion  on  a 
carpet  of  grass  and  moss.  The  columnar  trunks  were 
shaggy  brown.  Between  them  we  looked  down  into  a 
vast  hole  and  saw  the  iceberg  green  lake  at  the  bottom. 
A  cloud  ship  was  trailing  its  shadow  anchor  over  the 
mountain  wall  across  the  lake.  Down  the  side  it  came, 
dusking  the  forest.  It  swept  out  over  the  water,  and 
where  this  shadow  lay  the  water  changed  to  amethyst. 
We  lunched  at  six  thousand  feet,  on  the  edge  of  the 
first  snowfield  which  was  rapidly  melting  under  a  hot 
July  sun.  The  snow  had  receded  several  feet  in  the 
past  few  days,  leaving  the  ground  bare,  and  through  the 
gray  scum  which  you  always  find  under  the  accumulated 
Winter's  snow  the  earliest  Spring  wild  flowers  were 
pushing  up,  especially  dog-tooth  violets,  which  six  feet 
out  from  the  present  snow  line  were  shaking  their 
golden  bells  in  the  breeze.  We  were  not  above  timber, 
however.  In  the  White  Mountains  of  New  Hampshire 
timber  line  is  at  4,500  feet.  In  the  Alps  it  is  at  6,400. 
The  highest  timber  line  that  I  have  ever  seen  recorded  is 
13,800  feet,  on  Mount  Orizaba,  in  Mexico.  In  Colorado 
and  the  California  Sierras  it  is  between  11,000  and 
12,000  feet.  Above  Lake  Chelan,  it  appears  to 
average  something  under  8,000.  At  6,000  feet  on  War 
Creek  Pass  we  found  the  Douglas  firs  still  of  consider- 
able girth  and  height,  but  they  began  rapidly  to  dwarf 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS  81 

above  that  level,  and  the  trail  entered  a  belt  of  hard- 
woods, thin,  close-growing,  and  rather  naked  trees,  many 
of  them  winter  killed  and  leaning  against  their  up- 
standing brothers  or  fallen  like  barricades  across  the 
path.  The  Pass  itself  is  merely  the  lowest  point  on  the 
summit  ridge,  a  col  between  two  rock  pyramids.  It 
was  not  till  we  were  almost  cresting  this  col,  at  con- 
siderably more  than  7,000  feet,  that  the  wild,  tortured, 
low-growing  outpost  trees  of  the  true  timber  line  ap- 
peared, and  the  true  Alpine  flowers  in  the  sheltered  cran- 
nies. The  tortured  trees  of  timber  line!  Nothing  in 
nature,  perhaps,  is  wilder  and  more  thrilling.  I  have 
cut  a  mountain  fir  no  higher  than  my  knee  which  num- 
bered fifty  summers.  I  have  walked  on  a  trunk  half  as 
large  as  my  body,  which  rose  two  feet  from  under  the 
shelter  of  a  rock,  met  the  stinging  storm  blasts,  and  bent 
out  flat  parallel  to  the  ground  and  grew  thus  for  fifty 
feet,  as  though  some  giant  steam  roller  had  passed  over 
it.  You  climb  through  thinning  and  dwarfing  forests, 
with  an  ever-larger  prospect  opening  out  below  you, 
you  reach  the  heroic  outposts  of  the  trees,  you  inhale  a 
colder,  clearer  air,  you  feel  the  breath  of  the  snow,  you 
see  at  last  above  you  only  the  final  heave  of  naked  rock 
and  the  vast  dome  of  the  sky! 

And  here,  at  last,  where  the  forest  gave  up  the  fight  as 
it  caught  the  full  strength  of  the  shearing  wind,  we 
looked  into  the  forest  world  beyond  the  Pass,  the  goal  of 
the  Indians  who  first  made  the  trail.  We  looked  across 


82    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  forest  into  the  tumbled  gorges  of  the  Cascade  Range, 
advancing  like  a  sea  of  white-capped  billows  in  a  vast 
wave  line  against  the  western  sky.  Far  to  the  north- 
west rose  the  blue  and  white  cone  of  Mount  Baker.  To 
the  southwest,  across  the  hole  which  held  in  its  depths 
the  green  jewel  of  Lake  Chelan,  and  seemingly  but  just 
beyond  the  opposite  wall  of  that  hole,  lay  the  white- 
crowned  ridge  of  Glacier  Peak,  10,435  feet,  the  glaciers 
sprawling  down  its  summit  like  some  monstrous  octopus 
of  ice.  All  between  was  a  world  of  upheaved  magnifi- 
cence, of  deep  ravine  and  sun-washed  pinnacle,  of  naked 
precipices  and  dazzling  snowfields,  of  dark,  timbered 
slopes  and  the  glimpse  of  flashing  water.  Down  those  six 
thousand  feet  below  you  lay  the  lake,  the  green  pathway 
to  this  pageant  of  the  peaks.  Lake  and  pinnacle,  forest 
and  glacier, are  dedicated  to  the  nation;  they  are  our  own 
forever.  Yet  they  are  but  a  relatively  small  section  of 
the  unending  range,  set  apart  because  of  its  perfection. 
A  young  poet  of  the  Hood  River  Valley,  homesick  in 
New  York,  not  long  ago  put  his  longing  into  verse.  He 
spoke  of  the  call  of  the  West,  and  then  he  said: 

"  But  mightier  still  than  its  clarion  call 
Is  the  walloping  bigness  of  it  all, 
And  you  live  the  days  when  your  eye  swept  clear 
From  the  slopes  of  Hood  to  old  Rainier. 
Canon  on  canon — rock-ribbed  piles 
Rolling  away  for  a  hundred  miles — 
And  the  gold  of  the  sunset  on  leaf  and  branch 
Crowding  your  soul  like  an  avalanche." 


WHERE  GLACIERS  FEED  THE  APPLE  ROOTS  83 

As  I  stood  on  the  wind-swept  col  of  War  Creek  Pass 
and  faced  the  advancing  wave  line  of  the  Cascade  Range 
I  knew  exactly  what  he  meant.  I  knew  the  pride 
that  was  in  his  heart,  the  hunger  for  this  lofty  spacious- 
ness, this  tempestuous  beauty,  that  gnawed  his  bosom 
as  he  tramped  the  crowded  eastern  streets.  Then  my 
thoughts  descended  into  the  hole  where  the  green  lake 
lay,  and  went  back  down  its  jewelled  pathway  to  the 
orchards  at  its  lower  end,  fighting  their  way  up  as  close 
as  they  could  get  to  the  fir-clad  cliffs  and  the  eternal 
snows.  There  was  no  pity  in  my  thoughts  for  these 
pioneers  of  the  apple,  nor  admiration,  either.  There 
was  only  envy.  They  dwell  by  one  of  America's  noblest 
lakes,  the  great  hills  are  their  guardians,  beauty  their 
priceless  heritage.  The  pure  sap  of  the  glaciers  is  in 
their  perfect  fruit.  Is  it  not  possible,  is  it  not  likely, 
that  something  of  this  beauty  and  this  spaciousness  will 
go  into  the  generations  yet  to  be,  into  the  men  and 
women,  too? 

I  stumbled  down  from  War  Creek  Pass,  leading  my 
horse  till  the  gathering  shadows  made  me  prefer  to  trust 
his  feet  rather  than  my  own — a  humbler  and,  I  trust,  a 
better  American. 


CHAPTER  VI 
GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS 

THE  least  impressionable  person  alive  cannot  go  to 
the  Rocky  Mountains  without  giving  enthusiastic  at- 
tention to  the  wild  flowers.  This  is  only  in  part  due  to 
the  individual  beauty  of  those  flowers.  In  the  East  we 
have  many  as  beautiful,  some  more  beautiful,  and  still 
more  we  share  with  the  West.  But  it  is  seldom  that  our 
flowers  grow  in  such  masses  and  profusion,  with  so 
many  kinds  and  colours  blended  on  one  small  square  of 
ground,  and,  above  all,  it  is  seldom  that  our  flowers  have 
the  field  so  much  to  themselves,  sharing  it  only  with  a 
little  sparse  grass,  the  scattered  groups  of  limber  pine 
or  firs,  and  the  ice-water  brooks  from  the  snowfields. 
The  Rocky  Mountain  wild  flowers  often  display  their 
colours,  indeed,  against  a  backing  of  pure  snow,  or  grow 
underneath  pink  and  red  and  purple  precipices,  and 
beside  lakes  of  iceberg  green.  They  are  a  foreground  of 
delicate  beauty  for  a  picture  of  stupendous  impact.  No 
other  flowers  have  such  a  setting,  are  so  intimately 
associated  with  landscape  gardening  in  the  grand  style, 
the  style  of  Shakespeare  and  of  Milton. 

When  I  went  into  Glacier  Park,  I  bought  a  book 

84 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  85 

about  the  wild  flowers  of  the  North  American  mountains 
because  for  miles  out  in  the  prairie,  as  we  drew  near 
the  sky-blue  range,  I  had  been  seeing  wonderful  gar- 
dens in  the  grass.  In  fact,  the  prairie  grass  is  mostly 
wild  flowers.  Since  that  purchase,  I  have  been  seeking 
everywhere  to  find  the  names  of  many  flowers  this  book 
didn't  list.  It  was  a  provokingly  unsatisfactory  book, 
especially  because  it  failed  to  state  the  size  and  height  of 
flowers,  or  to  tell  which  are  indigenous  to  the  moun- 
tains. But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Some  day,  as 
travel  into  our  western  wonderland  increases,  the  right 
book  will  be  supplied  at  the  hotels.  The  first,  and  most 
astonishing,  omission  I  discovered  was  that  of  the  so- 
called  Indian  basket  grass,  or  squaw  grass  (Xerophyllum 
tenax).  As  any  one  who  has  seen  it  knows,  the  blossom 
of  this  *  'grass"  is  hardly  inconspicuous .  During  late  June 
and  July,  indeed,  the  tall,  yucca-like  stalk  rising  from  two 
to  six  feet  out  of  the  clump  of  coarse,  wiry  leaves  which  the 
horses  will  not  eat,  and  bearing  its  great  bloom-head  of 
creamy  white  flowers  like  a  torch,  is  the  most  striking 
plant  in  the  woods  and  meadows.  It  grows  in  among 
the  timber;  it  breaks  out  into  little  glades  and  meadows 
to  run  riot,  an  army  with  white  battle  plumes;  it  climbs 
to  the  high  "parks  "  just  below  the  passes  and  flourishes 
close  to  the  snowfields.  It  is  delicately  fragrant,  ex- 
tremely decorative  when  picked,  and  altogether  a  re- 
markably lovely  and  splendid  wild  flower.  Naturally, 
it  is  hardy,  nor  does  it  seem  to  have  any  decided  soil 


86    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

preference.  I  am  told  that  it  has  been  successfully 
grown  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina,  and  it  ought 
to  thrive  near  timber  line  on  Mount  Washington,  if 
some  White  Mountain  enthusiast  would  take  the 
trouble  to  try  it.  I  hope  some  day  to  experiment  with 
it  in  the  Berkshire  Hills. 

Next  to  the  squaw  grass,  the  most  conspicuous  wild 
flower  in  Glacier  Park  is  undoubtedly  the  dog-tooth 
violet  (Erythronium  grandiflorwn)  with  its  smaller 
variety,  the  parviflorum.  There  is  nothing  unusual 
about  this  plant,  of  course,  as  it  almost  exactly  resembles 
the  variety  Americanum  of  the  East,  save  that  it  grows 
taller;  but  it  is  conspicuous  in  the  Rockies  for  its  brave 
ubiquity.  Naturally  an  early  Spring  bloomer,  it 
doesn't  get  its  chance  in  the  upland  meadows  and  on  the 
high  slopes  till  the  snow  melts,  so  that  you  may  find  its 
golden  lily  bells  nodding  as  late  as  August.  When 
a  winter  snowfield  melts,  it  recedes  along  the  edges, 
showing  bare  ground  for  a  day  or  two.  Up  through  this 
ground  come  the  lily  leaves  of  the  "violets,"  and  with 
great  rapidity,  under  the  hot  summer  sun,  the  plants 
burst  into  blossom.  Sometimes  they  do  not  even  wait 
for  the  melting.  I  gathered  scores  of  them  blooming 
through  an  inch  or  more  of  snow.  Often  the  edge  of  a 
large  snowfield  for  half  a  mile  will  be  bordered  with  a 
solid  belt  of  gold,  from  six  to  a  hundred  feet  wide  ac- 
cording to  the  rapidity  with  which  the  melting  has 
taken  place.  If  the  snow  melts  slowly,  other  flowers 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  87 

come  in,  and  the  border  will  mark  the  seasons — six  feet 
of  dog-tooth  violets,  then  six  feet  of  chalice  cup,  per- 
haps, then  several  feet  of  lupine  or  tall  false  forget- 
me-not,  then  vetch  and  pale  blue  clematis  and  yellow 
columbine  and  purple  pentstemon,  and  so  on,  even  to 
goldenrod.  Sometimes,  on  the  sides  of  a  steep  gully 
where  the  snow  has  packed  hard  and  melted  very  slowly, 
these  belts  of  bloom  will  be  only  a  foot  or  two  wide,  run- 
ning all  the  changes  from  earliest  Spring  to  late  Summer 
in  a  space  of  fifty  feet. 

But  though  when  you  enter  an  upland  meadow, 
studded  with  limber  pines  (their  own  reddish  pink  cones 
a  pretty  blossom),  and  carpeted  with  white  snow- 
fields  bordered  with  gold,  you  are  first  aware  of  the  dog- 
tooth violets,  on  closer  inspection  you  find  dell  after 
little  dell  where  as  many  as  thirty  varieties  of  plants 
will  be  blooming  simultaneously.  You  have  passed 
many  others  on  the  wooded  trail  coming  up.  Soon,  as 
you  leave  the  timber  line  and  begin  to  climb  those  pink 
and  red  and  purple  cliffs  which  tower  over  you,  you 
will  find  that  what  now  looks  like  naked  rock  will  be  a 
sub-Arctic  or  Alpine  garden,  no  less  lovely  of  its  kind 
than  this  incomparable  meadow  half  way  between  the 
lowlands  and  the  peak. 

Among  the  woodland  flowers,  the  arnica  is  omnipres- 
ent. There  are  several  varieties,  closely  allied,  and  they 
literally  star  the  woods,  for  their  pretty,  yellow,  daisy- 
like  petals,  with  a  darker  yellow  centre,  are  borne  erect 


88    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

a  foot  or  two,  over  a  forest  floor  that  has  little  under- 
growth. Associated  with  the  woods,  too,  is  the  fairy 
twin  flower,  and  the  giant  Indian  hellebore  (veratrum 
viride),  with  its  huge,  lance-like  leaves  and  its  pale  white 
and  greenish  flowers.  This  plant,  of  course,  is  common 
in  the  East,  as  "false  hellebore,"  but  owing  to  our 
denser  undergrowth  it  never  seems  so  conspicuous. 

However,  it  is  difficult  to  draw  the  line  on  the  slopes 
of  the  Rockies  between  the  forest  and  the  open,  so  fre- 
quent are  the  glades,  and  so  much  do  the  flowers  tend  to 
run  from  one  to  the  other.  The  exquisite  and  common 
admixture  of  blue  larkspur  (Delphinium  Brownii  and 
its  variations),  purple  lupine  and  Indian  paint  brush 
(which  in  the  same  group,  sometimes  actually  in  the 
same  plant,  ranges  in  colour  from  a  greenish  white 
through  scarlet  to  its  standard  tone  of  bright,  bricky 
oraijge),  is  found  out  in  the  open,  and  beside  the  trail 
through  broken  timber  as  well.  It  is  an  even  more  com- 
mon colour  combination  in  the  volcanic  soil  of  the  Cas- 
cade Range,  where  acres  upon  acres  are  resplendent 
with  blue,  purple,  and  orange.  I  have  brought  back  to 
the  East  a  box  of  paint  brush  seed  (castilleja  miniata), 
which  I  hope  will  have  a  chance  to  try  our  mountain  soil. 
But  if  it  thrives  as  well  in  this  region  as  its  eastern  cou- 
sin, the  brilliant  painted  cup,  our  farmers  may  not  thank 
me! 

A  striking  plant  which  you  frequently  encounter,  in- 
variably close  to  the  edge  of  a  little  brook,  is  the  monkey 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  89 

flower  (mimulus  Lewisii),  which  somewhat  resembles  a 
sturdy,  dark  wine-red  petunia,  though  its  irregular 
trumpet  has  a  narrower  opening  and  the  petals  curl 
back  more.  It,  too,  has  an  eastern  relative,  closely  re- 
sembling it  in  shape,  but  blue  instead  of  red,  and  not 
over  half  the  size.  The  little  brooks  beside  which  the 
western  monkey  flower  grows  come  leaping  down  from 
the  snowfields  or  glaciers  above,  clear  and  cold  as  ice. 
Often  the  trail  is  cut  along  the  steep  side  of  a  bank,  so 
that  they  fall  tinkling  down  to  your  feet,  and  once  more 
leap  out  in  a  waterfall  the  other  side  of  the  path.  Thus, 
on  one  side  of  you  is  a  drop  with  a  splendid  prospect  of 
meadow  and  canon  and  far  peaks,  on  the  other  side,  so 
close  that  you  can  often  pluck  the  flowers  without  leav- 
ing your  saddle,  a  steep  bank  between  little  waterfalls, 
a  bank  which  is  a  perpetual  garden.  You  look  to  the 
left  upon  far  tremendousness,  you  look  to  the  right  at 
the  small,  close,  intimate  world  of  wild  flowers. 

In  this  intimate  world,  the  yellow  aquilegia,  or 
columbine,  is  conspicuous,  and  so  is  the  false  forget- 
me-not,  which  grows  everywhere.  It  is  larger  and 
not  always  so  true  a  blue  as  the  true  forget-me-not 
which  doesn't  begin  to  appear  until  the  higher  alti- 
tudes. But  it  is  a  lovely  flower,  none  the  less,  hardly 
deserving  to  be  branded  "false."  Delicate  harebells 
sway  here,  too,  in  this  land  where  all  the  flowers  crowd 
Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  into  one  or  two  brief 
months,  and  rough  fleabane  may  be  found  beside  tall 


90    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

white  viola  Canadensis,  or  goldenrod  beside  lupine. 
The  palely  purple  to  blue  blossom  of  the  clematis 
columbiana  grows  shyly  along  such  a  bank,  on  vines  that 
run  for  the  most  part  on  the  ground,  or  climb  a  little  way 
into  the  low,  stunted  branches  of  a  limber  pine.  Near 
them  may  be  golden  hairy  hawkweed,  and  just  across 
the  path  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  a  clump  of  red  heather, 
or  a  gay  group  of  pinkish  purple  pentstemon,  one  of  the 
showiest  of  the  wild  flowers.  There  is  pink  spiraea,  too, 
and  bright,  golden  shrubby  cinquefoil,  wrongly  known 
as  hardhack  by  our  Berkshire  farmers.  Near  it  may  be 
a  striking  clump  of  the  ascending  milk  vetch  (astragalus 
adsurgens),  with  its  purple  blooms.  Another  variety 
(the  Alpine  milk  vetch)  is  smaller  and  paler,  and  grows 
above  timber  line.  Both  pink  and  white  everlasting  are 
common,  too.  Indeed,  the  bank  beside  you  is  a  per- 
petually variegated  garden,  and  on  the  other  side,  you 
look  down  upon  meadows  which  are  gardens,  too, 
away  to  the  far  peaks. 

There  are,  of  course,  certain  flowers  which  you  come 
to  hold  in  peculiar  affection,  and  certain  spots  where 
they  grow  are  ever  after  remembered.  I  shall  never  for- 
get, for  instance,  the  little  pine-studded  meadow  at  the 
foot  of  Grinnell  Lake.  Beyond  the  lake  the  cliffs  leap 
up  to  the  great  white  mass  of  Grinnell  Glacier,  hanging 
on  a  lofty  shelf  of  the  Continental  Divide.  Over  these 
cliffs  waterfalls  descend  like  silver  hair,  their  soft  thunder 
coming  to  you  across  the  green  lake.  To  right  and 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  91 

left  naked  rock  walls  tower  up  into  peaks.  Yet  the 
moist  little  meadow  is  as  intimate  and  peaceful  as  a 
cloistered  garden,  and  in  mid-July,  when  we  were  there, 
was  carpeted  with  chalice  cups.  The  chalice  cup 
(anemone  occidentalis)  is,  of  course,  in  reality  a  spring 
flower.  Its  cream-white  blossom  is  from  one  to  two 
inches  across,  with  a  fluffy,  golden-green  centre.  Later 
this  fluffy  seed  head  expands  into  a  feathery  tuft  on  a 
stalk  a  foot  or  two  high,  and  is  almost  as  attractive  as 
the  flower.  But  until  you  have  seen  a  Rocky  Mountain 
meadow  carpeted  with  these  large,  beautiful,  soft 
anemones,  you  cannot  know  their  charm. 

The  mariposas  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  not  to  be 
forgotten,  either.  The  green-banded  mariposa  (calo- 
chortus  macrocarpus)  throws  up  a  straight,  erect  stem 
and  bears  a  lily  of  three  pale  lilac,  concave  petals,  with  a 
green  stripe  down  the  centre.  The  calochortus  alba, 
however  (a  variety  to  be  had  of  the  Montana  nursery- 
men), found  at  such  high  altitudes  as  Mount  Morgan 
Pass,  where  its  loveliness  has  only  the  sky  and  mountain 
goat  for  witnesses,  is  the  more  beautiful  of  the  two.  It 
is  like  Emerson's  "rose  of  beauty  on  the  brow  of 
chaos." 

Nor  is  the  traveller  likely  to  forget  certain  bits  of  road 
or  trailside  at  the  foot  of  the  range,  near  St.  Mary  Lake 
on  the  east  and  Lake  Macdonald  on  the  west,  where 
Nature  has  planted  border  clumps  of  "wild  hollyhock." 
This  delightful  plant  bears  a  stalk  from  four  to  six  feet 


92    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

high,  covered  toward  the  end  with  pink  blossoms  about 
the  size  of  a  wild  rose,  but  clustered  much  like  the 
hollyhock,  and  resembling  that  blossom  in  appearance. 
It  has  the  same  decorative  value  when  picked  and 
brought  into  the  house,  but  it  adds  a  certain  shy  wild- 
ness  of  its  own.  We  never  found  this  plant,  very 
evidently  a  mallow  of  some  sort,  except  near  these  two 
lakes,  but  not  growing,  however,  in  actual  wet.  It  was 
not  listed  in  my  annoying  book  of  Rocky  Mountain 
wild  flowers — there  were  no  mallows  listed  there.  Later 
it  was  identified  as  the  Sidalcea  neo-mexicana,  and  there 
is  also  a  cream  or  white  variety,  the  Candida.  This  mal- 
vaceous  plant  would  prove  a  rare  and  choice  addition  to 
any  garden,  but  I  have  found  only  one  or  two  Eastern 
houses  listing  anything  like  it. 

When  you  pass  above  timber  line  in  the  Rockies, 
especially  as  far  north  as  Glacier  Park,  you  enter  a  sub- 
Arctic  world  rather  than  an  Alpine.  Timber  line  in 
the  Alps  is  at  6,400  feet,  and  the  summits  are  covered 
with  eternal  snow.  Timber  line,  even  in  Glacier 
Park,  is  often  more  than  7,000  feet  (in  Colorado  it  is 
more  than  11,000),  and  though  there  are  numerous 
permanent  snowfields  as  well  as  glaciers  above  the  last 
twisted  trees,  the  bulk  of  the  great  shale  heaps  and  jag- 
ged rock  towers,  which  are  the  peaks  of  the  range,  are 
free  of  snow  for  at  least  two  months.  In  those  two 
months  the  brave  little  blossoms  of  these  Arctic  heights 
concentrate  their  beauty  and  fragrance.  You  are 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  93 

climbing  Piegan  Pass,  for  instance,  which  takes  you 
close  under  the  more  than  10,000-foot  summit  of  Mount 
Siyeh.     You  have  left  timber  far  behind,  and  are  crawl- 
ing up  beside  a  yawning  canon  hole,  amid  naked,  broken 
shale,  desolate  beyond  words  or  the  pencil. of  Dore. 
Yet  look  at  the  ground  close  beside  you!    It  is  not 
naked.     In  every  sheltered  cranny,  in  every  spot  where 
a  mite  of  soil  has  lodged,  flowers  are  blooming!     Some 
of  them  are  so  tiny  that  it  would  require  a  microscope  to 
analyze  them.     Some,  you  note  with  surprise,  are  of  the 
lowland  varieties,  dwarfed  by  the  summit  storms  like  a 
timber-line  tree.     I  found  a  shrubby  cinquefoil  at  al- 
most 9,000  feet,  with  a  stalk  as  large  as  my  thumb  and 
tough  as  steel;  but  it  grew  as  close  along  the  ground  as  a 
Mitchella  vine,  literally  hugging  the  earth,  and  wasn't 
more  than  a  foot  long.     Yet  it  was  bearing  blossoms 
quite  as  large  as  in  its  natural  position.     Here  on  the 
wind-swept  uplands  the  true  forget-me-not  grows,  this 
mountain  variety  being  as  a  rule  not  more  than  six 
inches  high,  but  of  a  marvellous  cerulean  blue.   Here  are 
various  gentians,  from  true  gentian  blue  through  pinky 
purple  to  almost  white.     Here,  too,  are  found  the  blue 
Greek  valerians,  fragrant,  thick,  bloom  clusters  on  hairy 
stems,  and  a  still  more  attractive  and  showy  plant,  the 
mountain  phacelia.     This  phacelia  sends  up  bluish- 
purple   bloom-spikes,    on    which   the   flowers    cluster 
thickly  in  a  panicle,  with  their  golden  stamens  pro- 
jecting  beyond   the   petal    trumpet   giving    them    a 


94    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

bewhiskered  appearance.  The  foliage  is  thick  and  hand- 
some, and  the  plant  has  an  odour,  though  not  a  pleasant 
one. 

But 'the  real  gem  of  the  Arctic  summits  is  the  moss 
campion.  This  exquisite  and  gay  little  pink,  its  blos- 
soms like  innumerable  petalled  pinheads  in  a  green 
cushion,  braves  the  loftiest  altitudes  and  caps  the  most 
stupendous  precipices.  It  must  make  fodder  for  the 
mountain  sheep  and  goats,  and  it  certainly  brings  joy  to 
the  heart  of  the  climber.  Often,  under  the  shelter  of  a 
rock,  or  even  in  the  hollow  on  top  of  a  rock,  you  will 
find  a  dwarf  garden  of  such  dainty  charm  that  you  have 
to  kneel  beside  it  and  admire.  There  will  be,  first,  a 
cushion  of  moss  campion  two  or  three  feet  across,  a 
pretty  swell  of  soft  green  velvet  covered  with  the  pink 
blossoms.  Then,  growing  around  it,  even  out  of  it,  will 
be  a  plant  or  two  of  sky-blue  forget-me-not,  perhaps 
some  pale  mauve  Alpine  vetch,  and,  if  the  altitude  is 
not  too  great,  the  slender  stalk  of  the  green  lily  (zygad- 
enus  elegans],  with  its  many  small,  roundish,  cream- 
white  flowers  splashed  with  green.  Indeed,  it  is  not 
impossible,  again  if  the  altitude  is  not  too  great,  that 
there  will  be  a  shooting  star  (dodecatheon  pauciftorum) 
in  the  garden — a  strange,  vivid  little  red  flower  spitting 
down  its  pointed  yellow  nose  toward  the  earth  again. 
Certainly,  on  the  surrounding  rocks  there  will  be  coloured 
lichens  and  tiny  stonecrop.  Such  a  garden  is  unknown 
on  the  only  sub-Arctic  summits  of  the  East — the  Presi- 


GLACIER  PARK  WILD  FLOWERS  95 

dential  Range  In  the  White  Mountains.  And  it  is 
worth  a  trip  across  the  continent  to  see. 

To  lift  a  wild  flower  out  of  its  setting  is  sometimes 
a  foolish  thing.  But  yet  the  more  American  flowers  we 
can  adapt,  and  as  far  as  possible  adapt  some  of  their 
natural  setting  with  them,  into  our  gardens,  the  sooner 
we  shall  have  a  garden  style  of  our  own.  Many  of 
these  Rocky  Mountain  wild  flowers  can  now  be  secured 
from  western  nurseries.  They  are  all  perfectly  hardy 
so  far  as  cold  is  concerned.  Heat,  rather,  would  be  their 
danger.  Among  the  best  now  being  exported  to  the 
East  are  the  false  dandelion  (possibly  a  dangerous  experi- 
ment); the  gay  arnica  for  shady  places;  the  white  mari- 
posa  lily;  the  calypso  borealis  (a  western  lady's  slipper); 
delphinium  bicolor,  or  blue-veined  larkspur,  a  low  plant 
for  high,  dry  places;  the  gay  shooting  star;  the  gaillardia 
aristata,  or  brown-eyed  Susan  of  the  prairies  and  lower 
hills,  possibly  too  much  like  our  common  garden  variety 
to  bother  with;  northern  bedstraw,  which  bears  small 
white  clusters  of  bloom;  and  blue  pentstemon,  which  is 
certainly  worth  experiment.  A  bed  of  it,  sown  to  grow 
up  through  a  ground  cover  of  sweet  alyssum,  would  be 
extremely  lovely.  The  eastern  varieties,  called  beard 
tongue,  so  far  as  I  have  ever  observed  are  not  thought 
enough  of  to  put  in  a  garden.  You  have  to  visit  the 
Rockies  before  you  appreciate  this  flower. 

Of  course,  I  have  mentioned  but  a  tiny  proportion 
of  the  blossoms  that  greet  you  when  you  enter  the  magic 


98    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

wilderness  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  chain.  No  doubt 
each  visitor  will  chide  me  for  omitting  his  favourite.  But 
if  I  have  made  one  reader  desirous  of  seeing  those  gar- 
dens for  himself,  I  am  satisfied.  For  all  our  talk,  we 
haven't  yet  begun  to  appreciate  our  own  land.  I  will 
match  the  chalice  cup  in  Grinnell  meadow  against  the 
edelweiss  any  day,  and  give  liberal  odds  at  that! 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  HARVEST  OF  THE  WILD  PLACES 

OVER  the  hill  behind  our  house,  and  then  a  mile 
through  the  swamp,  we  come  out  into  a  pasture  clear- 
ing set  on  a  slope.  The  slope  is  to  the  south,  with 
many  an  undulation  and  outcropping  ledge,  with  here 
and  there  a  group  of  young  hemlocks,  here  and  there 
an  old  apple  tree  bristling  with  suckers,  or  a  spiky  seed- 
ling from  the  parent  pippin  cropped  into  a  dwarf  cone 
like  an  inverted  top;  and  almost  in  the  centre  of  the 
pasture  a  hollow  where  a  spring  makes  an  emerald  patch 
in  the  grass,  and  an  emerald  ribbon  follows  the  outlet 
brook  into  the  woods.  On  its  southern  edge  the 
clearing  meets  the  forest,  with  little  bays  running 
into  the  pines,  or  sallies  of  young  birch  coming  out 
to  prospect  in  the  sunlight.  The  pasture  grass  is 
cropped  by  occasional  sheep  and  a  cow  or  two  which 
wander  through  the  woods  from  a  distant  farm.  They 
like  it  especially  in  hot  weather,  for  its  spring  and  its 
clumps  of  hemlock,  under  which  they  gather  in  the 
dense  shade  and  look  out  at  you  blandly.  But, 
despite  the  cattle,  it  is  a  wild  spot — an  abandoned 
clearing  going  back  to  forest;  part  of  a  farm  where 

97 


98    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

man  once  reaped  his  hard-won  harvests,  and  now 
reaps  no  more. 

Yet  it  is  harvested  daily  by  the  four-footed  and 
flying  creatures  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  human  culti- 
vation once  expended  upon  it  has  made  it  the  richer 
farm  for  them.  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  sow,  yet 
they  live  well  on  a  varied  if  vegetarian  diet.  They  reap 
as  the  fancy  strikes  them  in  man's  abandoned  clearing. 

There  is  so  much  to  see  in  our  pasture,  so  much  to  in- 
fer! It  is  so  quiet,  so  delicately  melancholy  with  its 
suggestion  of  a  vanished  race  of  New  England  pioneers, 
so  lovely  with  its  woods  and  spring,  such  a  busy  res- 
taurant for  the  birds  by  day,  with  music  furnished  by 
the  patrons,  and  by  night  a  restaurant,  too,  always 
open,  with  no  police  restrictions,  though  we  be  not  here 
to  see.  To  take  morning  reckoning  of  last  night's 
visitors,  especially  by  their  tracks  hi  the  snow,  is  one  of 
the  lesser  but  unfailing  delights  of  woodcraft. 

Birds  are  busy  creatures,  for  all  they  find  so  much 
time  to  sing,  and  they  pay  a  great  deal  more  attention 
to  their  stomachs  than  the  poets  ever  mention.  You 
will  come  closer  to  the  facts  in  those  government 
bulletins  which  report  the  finding  of  two  thousand  mos- 
quitoes in  the  stomach  of  a  single  martin,  and  similar 
interesting  discoveries,  than  in  the  poet's  pages.  I 
don't  know  that  I  have  ever  seen  it  computed  how  many 
raspberries  a  catbird  can  eat,  but  I  know  it  is  more  than 
I  can  spare  from  the  vines  in  my  own  garden,  where  a 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  99 

pair  of  catbirds  that  nest  each  year  in  a  red-osier  dog- 
wood beneath  my  study  window,  love  to  feed.  Out  in 
our  abandoned  clearing,  however,  I  do  not  begrudge 
them  the  berries,  which  grow  in  a  corner  where  the 
vanished  farmer  made  his  last  cutting  of  timber. 
Many  a  time  I  have  lam  on  the  ground  up  the  slope  in 
f  ruiting  season  and  watched  a  catbird  darting  back  and 
forth  to  these  vines,  as  if  his  appetite  were  insatiable,  his 
trim  gunmetal  body  taking  the  sun  on  head  or  wing-tip. 
Presently  I  would  get  up  and  stroll  over  to  gather  some 
berries  for  myself.  You  would  have  thought  a  band  of 
human  pickers  had  been  there,  to  see  all  the  whitish, 
thimble-shaped  hulls  hanging  denuded  from  their  stems. 
Even  as  I  would  put  out  my  hand  for  a  red  fruit  there 
would  come  from  the  thicket  close  by  a  mew  of  protest 
and  an  angry  flutter  of  wings.  Though,  in  my  own  ex- 
perience, the  catbirds  are  most  addicted  to  raspberries, 
the  thrushes,  orioles,  robins,  flickers,  and  cedar  wax- 
wings  also  eat  them,  and  doubtless  other  birds  besides. 
But  there  are  many  other  harvest  products  in  and 
about  our  pasture  besides  the  raspberries.  Even  the 
weeds  yield  their  store,  and  in  Autumn,  or  better  still 
in  Whiter,  when  the  weed  tops  stand  up  dry  and  stiff 
above  a  light  covering  of  snow,  you  may  see  the  Can- 
adian or  tree  sparrows  (so  called,  perhaps,  because  they 
spend  most  of  their  lives  on  the  ground !)  hopping  up  to 
peck  at  the  seeds,  or  occasionally  one  more  wise  shaking 
ihe  seeds  down  and  picking  them  up  from  the  snow.  In 


100    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

our  own  farms  and  gardens,  indeed,  we  may  see  the  same 
thing  occurring,  and  often  beneath  a  weed  top  find  on 
light  snow  the  dust  of  seed  shells  and  innumerable  tiny 
tracks.  There  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  the  weed 
tops  above  a  deep  snow  by  country  roadside  or  forest 
edge.  Consider  a  group  of  wild-carrot  tops  (Queen  Anne's 
lace)  dried  and  turned  up  into  fretted  cups  to  hold  each 
its  thimbleful  of  snow,  or  a  clump  of  withered  golden-rod 
blooms,  as  perfect  in  shape  as  they  were  when  the  frost 
struck  them  down,  but  a  brownish  gray  now  instead  of 
gold.  Above  all,  look  for  the  pods  of  the  milkweed, 
three  or  more  on  a  single  tall  stalk,  a  lovely  yellowish 
brown  inside,  a  delicate  mouse-gray  on  the  tongue, 
which  curls  over  like  the  hood  of  a  Jack-in-the-pulpit! 
The  milkweed  pods,  above  the  deep  snows  of  Winter, 
with  the  full  sun  upon  them,  are  like  petrified  orchids. 
Grass  tops  are  lovely,  too,  rising  through  the  dazzle,  and 
cattails  in  the  swamp,  and  many  a  more  humble  weed. 
And  every  one  that  bears  seeds  is  harvest  for  the  birds 
and  mice,  as  well  as  the  most  delicate  of  etchings — a  few 
gracefully  stiff  lines,  a  puff  of  withered  bloom  against 
the  dazzling  ground  plate  of  snow.  The  birds  are  not 
the  only  creatures  which  benefit  by  the  weeds.  Tiny 
footmarks,  with  the  line  of  the  tail  between,  make  roads 
amid  all  the  weeds  of  our  pasture  after  Winter  has  come. 
We  may  call  it  an  abandoned  clearing,  but  it  was  busy 
enough  last  night! 

Richer  food  than  the  weeds,  however,  is  provided 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  101 

near  our  pasture  by  the  black  cherry  tree  close  to  the 
old  fence  just  over  the  ridge  toward  a  desolate  cellar- 
hole.  It  is  the  lush  time  of  Summer  when  this  tree  is  in 
fruit,  the  time  when  the  baby  birds  are  getting  their 
growth,  when  the  mother  robins  are  anxiously  busy. 
Man  may  have  forsaken  this  clearing,  but  if  we  take  our 
stand  quietly  under  the  cherry  tree,  and  wait  a  few 
moments  till  the  frightened  birds  are  reassured,  we  find 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of  almost  feverish  avian  activity. 
Robins  dart  into  the  tree  incessantly,  making  a  con- 
siderable noise  about  it,  too.  Now  and  then  a  big 
flicker  comes  winging  into  the  branches.  There  is  the 
gorgeous  flash  of  an  oriole,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  the 
brilliance  of  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  or  a  tanager. 
Only  the  robins  so  haunt  our  domestic  cherry  trees  (can 
you  not  remember  how  as  a  boy  you  were  startled,  when 
robbing  a  neighbour's  tree,  by  the  rush  of  wings  almost 
against  your  face?) ;  and  I  have  been  told  that  even  in  an 
orchard,  if  a  wild  cherry  is  planted  amid  the  cultivated 
sorts,  the  red-breasted  trespassers  will  choose  it  in 
preference.  Perhaps  they  find  the  small  fruit  better  for 
their  young.  I  have  seen  a  mother  robin  in  our  garden 
try  twelve  successive  times  to  stuff  a  large  red  cherry 
down  the  throat  of  her  offspring,  and  give  up  the  task 
only  when  the  fruit  was  entirely  battered  off  the  stone. 
The  wild  cherry  trees,  of  course,  are  undesirable  to  the 
gardener  because  they  harbour  so  many  insect  pests, 
especially  tent  caterpillars,  but  if  these  pests  were  kept 


102    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

down  by  spraying,  a  few  wild  trees  ought  to  be  a  con- 
siderable protection  on  the  edge  of  a  cherry  orchard. 

Along  such  a  fence  as  that  where  the  cherry  tree 
stands  might  well  be  several  cedars.  The  cedar  is  not  a 
common  tree  with  us,  to  be  sure,  but  it  grows  plentifully 
twenty  miles  south  in  Connecticut.  There  the  pastures 
are  studded  with  dark  sentinels,  and  many  an  old  fence 
post  is  companioned  by  a  sturdy  tree  or  two.  When  the 
blue  cedar  berries  are  ripe  in  the  Autumn  the  late  visi- 
tors among  the  birds,  such  as  cedar  wax-wings,  robins, 
jays,  and  perhaps  bluebirds  and  ruffed  grouse  (par- 
tridges), find  them  a  ready  food,  and  find,  as  well,  warm 
protection  from  early  snowstorms  in  the  thick  foliage. 
The  young  cedars,  too,  make  excellent  nesting  places 
for  the  smaller  sparrows  in  early  summer.  The  foliage 
is  so  dense  and  upstanding  about  the  trunk  that  such  a 
nest  is  practically  invisible,  and  one  existed  in  our  yard 
last  year,  only  breast-high  beside  a  frequented  garden 
path,  for  many  weeks  before  we  discovered  it. 

The  lively  goldfinch  is  brother  to  the  butterflies  in  our 
forsaken  pasture  in  thistle-time.  There  are  but  few 
thistles,  and  they  are  clustered  amid  wild  sunflowers  in 
a  fork  of  an  old  logging  road  by  the  edge  of  the  second 
growth — a  pretty  colour  scheme  of  pink  and  gold.  It 
seems  almost  as  if  the  finches  realized  their  own  har- 
mony with  this  bit  of  wild  gardening,  for  they  wing  into 
the  bed,  seeking  thistle-down  for  their  nests  and  starting 
up  a  swarm  of  tiny  brown  butterflies  which  had  been  in- 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  103 

visible  before.  This  garden-patch,  too,  is  murmurous 
with  bees  on  a  warm  summer  morning.  Later  the  finch 
returns  to  the  sunflowers  for  their  seeds,  and  later  still 
you  may  see  the  chickadees  darting  quickly  and  cheerily 
out  of  the  pines  on  the  same  errand. 

Pine  buds  are  still  another  form  of  food  the  pasture 
affords,  and  the  English  pheasants  which  have  overrun 
our  Berkshire  woods  in  the  last  decade  are  the  feeders. 
The  pheasant  is  a  walking  bird,  treading  with  one  foot 
directly  behind  the  other  in  a  perfectly  straight  line, 
and  he  will  often  tramp  for  miles  without  leaving  the 
ground.  I  have  myself  tracked  one  in  light  snow  for 
more  than  two  miles,  and  found  him  at  the  end  in  a 
nest  of  leaves.  Unlike  the  partridge  (perhaps  because 
they  are  protected  fifty-one  weeks  in  the  year),  the 
pheasants  like  to  feed  in  open  spaces,  and  they  par- 
ticularly affect  our  pasture  because  many  little  seedling 
pines  have  begun  to  creep  out  from  the  forest  edge  and 
climb  the  slope,  especially  around  the  spring.  Only  the 
other  day,  walking  softly  on  snow-shoes,  we  came  out  of 
the  woods  into  the  open  dazzle  and  saw  four  brown 
pheasants  close  to  the  spring,  waddling  on  the  snow. 
They  did  not  fly  up  till  we  were  within  fifty  feet  of 
them.  The  snow  was  two  feet  deep,  and  it  had  thus 
raised  their  feeding  level.  Their  tracks  were  every- 
where about  the  seedling  pines,  and  the  juicy  little 
terminal  buds,  which  had  been  out  of  reach  before  the 
storm,  were  nipped  off  by  the  hundred.  Snow  which 


104    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

made  food  scarcer  for  other  birds  made  it  easier  for  them 
to  obtain.  Perhaps  that  is  one  reason  they  are  multi- 
plying so  fast.  Many  of  their  tracks  led  down  to  the 
spring,  which  was  still  open  in  the  centre — a  black  hole 
in  the  expanse  of  snow.  Evidently  they  had  gone  down 
to  drink  or  bathe. 

This  same  deep  snow  and  accompanying  cold  brought 
down  to  New  England  and  New  York  from  the  north 
flocks  upon  flocks  of  the  rare  pine  grosbeaks,  large, 
beautiful  birds  which  move  silently  save  for  occasional 
little  soft  notes,  almost  like  the  pleasant  squeaking  of  a 
tiny  hinge.  They  grew  very  tame  as  winter  pro- 
gressed, and,  from  a  discovery  of  the  wild  barberry 
bushes  in  the  woods  and  abandoned  clearings,  moved  in 
to  feed  upon  the  barberry  hedges  lining  the  drives  of 
summer  estates,  and  then  actually  to  the  bushes  in 
front  of  occupied  houses.  On  one  of  our  walks  we  found 
a  barberry  bush  surrounded  apparently  by  blood-stains 
on  the  snow,  but  sitting  on  a  topmost  spray  was  the 
cause.  A  young  grosbeak,  not  yet  arrived  at  the  dig- 
nity of  red  plumage,  his  bosom  feathers  puffed  out  by 
the  cold  wind,  held  a  barberry  in  his  bill,  and  was  work- 
ing it  back  and  forth,  sideways,  rolling  off  the  skin, 
evidently  to  get  at  the  seeds  and  pulp.  Presently  he 
dropped  the  skin  on  the  snow,  emitted  a  gentle  squeak 
or  two,  hopped  to  a  new  spray,  and,  quite  unmindful  of 
us,  began  on  another.  The  snow  had  no  terrors  for  him 
so  long  as  that  bush  held  out. 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  105 

The  major  harvest  of  our  pasture  is  undoubtedly  the 
apple  crop,  and  the  major  harvesters  are  the  deer.  The 
apples  are  small  and  bitter — or  else  tasteless — now. 
Encouraged  by  the  optimism  of  Thoreau,  I  have  bitten 
into  many  hundreds  of  wild  apples  since  I  first  read  his 
immortal  psean  in  their  praise,  but  I  have  yet  to  discover 
a  second  Baldwin,  or  even  an  equal  of  the  poorest 
variety  in  our  orchard  crop.  At  any  rate,  I  no  longer 
pick  the  apples  in  this  pasture.  No  one  picks  them. 
They  fall  to  the  gound  on  an  autumn  night,  and  no  one 
hears  the  soft,  startling  thud  in  the  silence  of  the  for- 
gotten clearing.  But  the  squirrels  and  the  deer  know 
where  they  are.  More  than  once,  in  Autumn,  we  have 
come  out  into  the  pasture  in  time  to  see  a  squirrel 
leaping  across  the  open  spaces  toward  the  shelter  of  the 
pines  with  an  apple  in  his  mouth,  and  we  have  often 
seen  one  nip  an  apple  from  its  stem,  run  down  to  the 
ground  to  get  it,  and  then  climb  back  with  it  to  a 
crotch  and  eat  at  it.  Sometimes  they  spit  out  the  pulp, 
apparently  aiming  to  get  at  the  seeds,  especially  after 
the  fruit  is  over-ripe.  Sometimes  they  appear  to 
swallow  it.  In  old  fence-holes  frequented  by  chip- 
munks and  squirrels  you  will  often  find  apple  seeds. 
On  the  other  hand,  you  will  often  find  apples  partially 
eaten  on  the  ground  beneath  the  trees,  but  not  bitten 
through  to  the  core,  unmistakably  by  squirrels.  The 
rabbits,  also,  eat  the  apples  in  winter.  They  will  even 
come  into  our  garden  close  to  the  village  street,  and 


106    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

eat  the  rotten  apples  on  the  frozen  compost  heap.  It  is 
there  the  cat  hunts  them,  stalking  behind  the  hedge. 
One  of  the  delights  of  a  walk  to  our  pasture  is  the  soft, 
sneaking  approach  through  the  woods,  and  the  sur- 
prised uprush  of  pheasants  from  the  ground  when  we 
are  discovered,  or  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  white 
tennis-ball,  bounding  away  from  under  the  apple  trees. 
The  pips  and  stalks  of  wild  roses  and  the  new  wood  of 
raspberry  vines  are  food  for  the  rabbits,  nor  are  they  at 
all  averse  to  domestic  roses  and  cultivated  raspberry 
stalks,  as  I  know  to  my  sorrow.  They  are  out  in  almost 
all  weathers,  and  the  alder  thicket  below  the  pasture,  on 
the  swamp  edge,  is  in  winter  a  perfect  network  of  their 
regularly  travelled  roads  leading  out  to  the  feeding 
grounds.  The  dog  goes  quite  mad  on  this  criss  cross  of 
trails. 

The  old  apple  trees  of  our  clearing,  studded  with 
suckers  and  spikes,  are  also  a  favourite  roosting  place 
for  the  pheasants.  The  pheasants  evidently  eat  the 
terminal  buds.  The  pine  grosbeaks,  too,  discovered  the 
apple  trees  last  winter,  carefully  rejecting  the  skin  of  the 
fruit  as  they  did  the  skin  of  the  berries.  Many  people, 
I  find,  who  attempted  to  attract  the  grosbeaks  around 
their  dwellings  discovered  that  apples  were  one  of  the 
few  tempting  baits.  These  birds  have  not  yet  learned, 
like  the  chickadees  and  nuthatches,  the  ways  of  civiliza- 
tion; they  will  not  touch  suet  or  crumbs — or  even  sun- 
flower seeds.  But  apples  will  tempt  them  always. 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  107 

The  deer  come  to  the  wild  apple  trees  most  frequently 
at  night.  Wherever  there  is  an  abandoned  clearing  or 
secluded  orchard  near  their  ranges,  they  will  find  it  out, 
and  in  the  morning  after  a  snowfall,  or  more  likely  the 
second  day  after,  you  will  find  their  hoof-marks  all 
about  the  trees,  and  plentiful  signs  where  they  have 
pawed  up  the  snow  and  nozzled  out  the  frozen  fruit  be- 
neath. If  I  were  the  particular  sort  of  "sportsman" 
who  shoots  tame  deer  in  Massachusetts  during  our  open 
week  in  November,  I  know  a  certain  old  apple  tree  far 
back  from  the  road  in  a  nearly  deserted  township  where 
I  should  build  a  blind  and  sit  comfortably  down  to  wait 
for  the  slaughter.  But  that  is  hardly  the  way  in  which  I 
wish  to  hunt  them.  It  is  almost  inconceivable  to  me, 
indeed,  that  the  law  should  give  any  opportunity  for  the 
destruction  of  these  beautiful  and  harmless  creatures, 
the  last  of  the  larger  four-footed  wild  things  to  roam  our 
eastern  woods.  Those  who  hunt  them  are  com- 
paratively few,  if  damnably  destructive;  those  who 
would  rejoice  to  see  our  forests  peopled  with  the  love- 
liest of  wild  creatures  are  legion.  Yet  the  kill-lust  of  the 
few  rules  in  our  legislatures.  The  traditions  of  bar- 
barism die  hard ! 

As  for  me,  I  much  prefer  to  track  the  deer  back  from 
the  apple  tree  in  our  clearing,  where  he  has  been  pawing 
up  the  snow,  into  the  woods,  following  his  rambles  to  see 
what  else  he  ate  that  day — not  a  difficult  task  when  the 
snow  is  fresh.  It  is  obvious  that  he  has  nibbled  at 


108    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

young  hemlocks,  apparently  pulling  off  the  tips  as  he 
passed  along,  much  as  a  horse  will  do  when  you  are 
driving  him  idly  down  a  country  lane.  But  the  ground- 
hemlock,  or  American  yew,  is  not  thus  lightly  passed 
over.  When  the  deer  find  a  clump  of  this  evergreen 
rising  above  the  snow,  they  fall  upon  it  eagerly,  and 
sometimes  eat  it  down  almost  to  ground  level.  It  is  a 
staple  of  their  diet.  Another  staple  seems  to  be  sumac. 
More  than  once  I  have  come  upon  a  deer  along  some 
back  road,  feeding  close  to  the  boundary  wall,  and  in- 
vestigation has  disclosed  that  he  was  eating  sumac  fruit. 
In  whiter,  when  you  pick  up  a  deer  track  in  the  woods 
and  have  time  and  patience  to  follow,  it  will  frequently 
lead  you  to  some  sumac  hedge  by  a  pasture  wall  or  back 
road.  Before  it  gets  there,  to  be  sure,  it  may  take  you 
into  the  deep  forest  for  ground-hemlock,  and  over  a 
frozen  swamp  to  a  spot  where  there  are  water-holes  pro- 
tected from  frost  between  the  peaty  hummocks,  or  even 
over  a  mountain  almost  too  steep  and  slippery  for  your 
feet.  But  ultimately  in  our  New  England  country  the 
deer  will  probably  swing  back  toward  a  sumac  patch, 
even  if  it  brings  him  close  to  a  village,  and  leave  the 
signs  of  his  feeding  on  the  broken  stems.  To  start  a  doe 
with  her  fawns  by  a  sumac  hedge,  to  see  her  clear  a  stone 
wall  at  a  single  leap  with  no  running  start,  to  see  the 
fawns  with  white  tails  like  rabbits  go  cavorting  after  her 
with  all  the  grace  of  animated  saw-horses,  is  one  of  the 
prettiest  sights  in  nature. 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  109 

As  you  are  tracking  your  deer  through  the  woods, 
you  will  come  upon  many  other  signs  of  wild  harvesting. 
Perhaps  you  may  be  sitting  under  a  pine  tree,  when  sud- 
denly a  cone  scale  will  fall  on  your  head.  Listen,  and 
you  will  hear  the  sound  of  crackling  far  above  you. 
Creep  out  away  from  the  tree,  and  look  up.  It  may 
take  you  several  seconds  to  find  him,  but  presently  you 
will  spot  a  red  squirrel  sitting  in  a  crotch,  tearing 
busily  at  a  cone  held  in  his  fore  paws,  to  shred  it  down  to 
the  edible  part.  Perhaps  if  you  are  very  quiet  you  may 
see  him  descend  the  trunk,  spring  out  to  the  ground 
when  he  gets  three  or  four  feet  from  the  bottom,  and 
leap  across  the  snow  toward  an  old  stump,  or  some  other 
tree  which  contains  his  hole.  Occasionally,  even,  he 
will  disappear  into  the  snow,  working  through  a  tunnel 
he  has  built  to  some  hiding  place.  There  will  be  scarce 
a  clump  in  the  pine  woods  without  its  litter  of  cone  scales 
on  the  snow  about  it,  and  scarce  a  tree  without  tracks 
leading  close  to  it,  and  tracks  leading  away  from  it  which 
start  three,  four,  or  even  five  feet  out.  The  pine  and 
purple  finches  feed  on  the  cones,  also,  as  well  as  the  rare 
pine  grosbeaks,  and  the  crossbills.  If  you  ever  get  a 
chance  to  observe  a  crossbill  at  work  shredding  a  cone, 
you  will  no  longer  consider  his  odd  bill  poorly  adapted 
to  its  purpose.  It  never  slips,  but  holds  like  a  vise  while 
the  hidden  neck  muscles  under  those  brick-red  feathers 
do  the  work.  This  is  the  bird  which  an  old  German 
legend  says  got  its  twisted  bill  from  trying  to  pull  the 


110    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

nails  from  the  Saviour's  hands  when  he  hung  upon  the 
cross,  and  its  red  feathers  from  the  sacred  blood. 

But  hark!  the  dog  has  flushed  a  partridge!  It  goes 
whirring  off  through  the  woods,  with  its  uncanny  facility 
in  dodging  obstructions.  There  is  little  difficulty  in 
finding  the  spot  whence  it  rose.  On  a  southward- 
sloping  bank,  in  a  shaft  of  sunlight,  the  snow  has  almost 
melted  away,  and  with  a  little  scratching  the  bird  has 
uncovered  some  partridge-berries,  or  eyeberries  as  we 
boys  used  to  call  the  fruit  of  the  Mitchella  repens,  that 
dainty  little  evergreen  trailer  which  bears  its  fragrant, 
waxy  flowers  in  June,  and  later  its  bright  red  berries, 
on  the  forest  floor  of  our  American  woods.  How 
glossy  the  leaves  look  now,  and  how  brilliant  the 
berries,  as  they  lie  on  the  dark,  exposed  mould,  amid 
the  snow  and  the  scattered  fragments  of  dead  leaves 
scratched  away  by  the  bird !  They  are  pleasant  to  the 
human  taste,  also,  though  without  the  pungency  of 
checkerberries. 

The  partridges  are  growing  scarce  in  our  Berkshire 
thickets.  Certain  gamekeepers  say  it  is  because  the 
English  pheasants  have  driven  them  to  the  mountain- 
tops,  but  I  have  my  doubts  of  this,  though  it  is  un- 
doubtedly true  that  this  grouse  we  never  tame  is  now 
found  above  the  1,500-foot  level,  while  the  pheasants  re- 
main at  a  lower  altitude.  We  have  thousands  of  pheas- 
ants and  as  they  were  until  recently  protected  the  year 
through,  they  are  extremely  fearless,  walking  up  to  our 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  111 

very  dooryards  after  grain.  But  there  is  a  fatal  open 
season  on  partridges,  and  where  they  are  hunted  they  are 
shy  and  scarce.  Ascend  the  Crawford  Bridle  Path  up 
Mount  Washington,  however,  where  they  are  ap- 
parently not  molested,  and  before  you  break  out  of  the 
woods  on  Clinton  you  will  often  come  upon  whole  coveys 
of  them  beside  the  path,  so  tame  that  they  will  almost 
let  you  touch  them  with  your  hand,  as  they  will  in  the 
Canadian  wilds.  I  have  stood  in  the  path  and  watched 
a  male  bird,  with  three  or  four  females  about  him, 
scratching  in  the  moss  not  six  feet  from  me,  and  have 
talked  aloud  with  my  companion  while  the  partridges 
continued  feeding,  quite  indifferent  to  us,  and  keeping 
up  a  soft,  hen-like  coot,  coot  of  their  own,  a  lovely  little 
woodland  sound. 

The  fact  that  the  English  pheasants  are  not  neces- 
sarily inimical  to  partridges,  at  any  rate,  is  attested  by 
the  experience  of  a  breeder  in  Lenox,  who  found  both 
birds  nesting  on  terms  of  perfect  peace  in  the  thickets  of 
his  carefully  posted  and  patrolled  estate.  He  has 
several  times  tried  to  breed  the  grouse  in  captivity,  but 
with  little  success,  owing  to  the  strange  fact  that  the 
cock  invariably  attempted  to  kill  the  female  after 
union,  and  on  seven  occasions  succeeded  before  the 
keeper  could  rescue  her.  But  in  a  wild  state,  this 
breeder  believes,  the  partridges  could  hold  their  own 
with  the  pheasants  if  given  the  same  protection.  What 
a  pity  the  chance,  at  least,  is  not  afforded  them!  No 


GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

surprise  in  the  woods  is  more  startlingly  sudden  and 
nerve-tingling  than  the  uprush  of  an  unsuspected  par- 
tridge and  his  booming  flight  along  an  alley  of  sunlight 
ahead.  Why  must  it  forever  be  a  temptation  to  pull  a 
trigger?  Alas!  man  has  got  but  little  beyond  the  in- 
stincts of  his  remote  ancestors! 

The  partridge  feeds  on  strawberries,  as  well  as  on  the 
berry  which  bears  his  name,  on  checkerberries,  false 
Solomon's  seal,  apple  buds,  pine  buds,  and  even  on  wild 
grapes.  Sometimes  the  grouse  will  sit  in  a  tall  tree 
almost  like  hens  at  roost,  and  perhaps  you  may  see  them 
In  the  early  morning,  or  late  twilight  after  frosts.  They 
are  more  at  ease  than  hens,  however,  and  negotiate  a 
change  of  perch  with  far  more  grace  and  much  less 
audible  excitement. 

We  have  no  quail  in  Berkshire  County,  which  is  one  of 
our  serious  failings.  When  I  was  a  boy  in  eastern  Mas- 
sachusetts, a  half-witted  French  Canadian  was  often 
my  companion  in  the  open,  because  he  could  sit  down  in 
a  field  by  the  edge  of  the  woods,  motion  me  to  silence, 
and  then  whistle  "Bob  White"  till  sometimes  a  whole 
flock  of  quail  would  be  gathered  on  the  ground  about  us, 
almost  like  the  penguins  about  Captain  Scott's  phono- 
graph on  the  Ross  Barrier.  I  can  still  remember  the 
odd  thrill  of  that  experience,  and  my  awe  of  the  half- 
witted youth  who  had  so  little  kinship  with  the  rest  of  us 
boys,  so  much  with  the  birds.  But  our  Berkshire 
winters  are  too  severe  for  the  ground-dwelling  quail,  and 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  113 

we  have  too  many  foxes,  as  well — and  doubtless,  in  times 
past,  have  had  too  many  hunters. 

Foxes  are  not  generally  accredited  with  vegetarian  in- 
stincts. You  never  see  their  tracks,  as  you  see  those  of 
the  rabbits,  around  a  young  oak-tree  shoot  which  has 
been  nibbled  down  to  the  tough  stem.  But  Msop  evi- 
dently thought  otherwise  when  he  wrote  his  fable  of  the 
sour  grapes,  and  there  is  plenty  of  testimony  that  /Esop 
was  right.  Foxes  do  eat  wild  grapes,  as  many  observers 
have  testified,  climbing  a  considerable  way  to  get  them; 
and  probably  at  times  they  eat  berries  and  perhaps 
apples.  I  have  found  their  tracks,  at  any  rate,  beneath 
apple  trees.  I  have  also  been  confidently  assured  that 
they  eat  the  persimmons  in  Virginia;  that  the  "oF  houn* 
dawgs"  know  how  good  this  fruit  is,  too,  and  if  you 
wish  to  find  the  very  best  tree,  take  a  "dawg"  with  you. 

Mr.  Woodchuck,  on  the  other  hand,  doesn't  eat  at  all 
after  September.  He  hibernates,  coming  out  on  Candle- 
mas Day  to  see  his  shadow  and  make  an  annual 
"weather  story"  for  the  newspapers.  Up  in  our  pas- 
ture one  Winter  the  ground-hog  who  lives  there  had  to 
tunnel  up  through  two  feet  of  snow  to  get  his  outlook. 
The  six-inch  bore  by  which  he  emerged  was  yellowed  by 
the  dirt  on  his  body,  and  he  packed  a  hard,  dirty  track 
across  the  snow  for  ten  feet  to  a  bore  leading  down  to  the 
back  entrance  of  his  dwelling.  Evidently  he  took  some 
exercise  between  the  two  doors.  But  there  was  not  a 
single  track  leading  away  in  any  direction. 


114    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

\ 
The  wood-mice — or  deer-mice — eat  apples,  surely» 

and  many  other  things,  including  maple  seeds.  They 
also  harvest  hazel  and  beech  nuts  in  great  quantities, 
and  they  are  not  at  all  averse,  as  I  can  unfortunately 
testify,  to  Spanish  iris  bulbs  and  the  bark  of  young 
apple  trees.  They  nest  not  only  in  the  woods,  but  in 
our  gardens,  preferably  under  a  pile  of  pea  brush,  or  the 
straw  protection  on  the  flower  beds,  and  often  I  have 
found  their  tracks  in  the  snow  all  about  the  weed  stalks, 
and  the  dust  of  trampled  seeds,  as  if  they  had  shaken 
down  their  food  by  climbing  the  stems. 

The  mention  of  maple  seeds  brings  us  around,  by  a 
process  of  suggestion  plain  enough  to  the  Yankee,  to 
Spring.  When  the  sap  runs  in  the  maple  trees,  when 
the  melting  snow  steams  in  the  sugar  grove  and  makes  a 
haze  that  is  permeated  with  the  aroma  of  wood-smoke 
and  boiling  syrup,  Spring  indeed  is  on  the  way.  It  is 
then  that  the  yellow-bellied  woodpecker,  or  sapsucker, 
comes  into  prominence,  if  not  into  repute.  He  makes 
one  or  two  holes  in  a  tree — deep  holes,  sufficient  to  in- 
duce a  good  run  of  sap — and  then  goes  to  another  tree, 
and  another,  and  still  another.  When  his  taps  are  all 
running,  he  starts  back  and  makes  the  rounds,  drinking 
insatiably,  and  also,  some  say,  feeding  on  the  insects 
which  stick  to  the  wet  bark  around  his  bores.  Mr. 
Burroughs  denies  this,  and  on  the  occasions  when  I 
have  driven  a  bird  away  from  his  bores  I  have  never 
yet  found  anything  but  clean  sap  and  bark  in  the  hole. 


HARVEST  OF  WILD  PLACES  115 

He  taps  the  yellow  birches,  also,  for  they  have  a  very 
considerable  flow  of  sap  in  Spring,  which,  in  an  un- 
boiled state,  tastes  nearly  as  sweet  as  maple.  Later  he 
favours  apple  trees. 

The  squirrels,  likewise,  are  sap-drinkers  at  this 
season.  If  you  will  break  the  twig  of  a  sugar  maple  in 
Spring  you  will  soon  find  a  crystal  drop  depending  from 
the  abrasion.  The  squirrels  know  this,  and  they  either 
nip  several  twigs  off  or  bite  deeply  into  the  larger 
shoots,  and  then  go  back  over  their  tracks,  drinking  the 
sweet  sap  drops.  I  have  seen  them  do  it  in  the  maple 
at  my  own  door,  as  well  as  in  the  woods. 

Our  investigation  of  that  deer's  diet  has  taken  us  far 
afield  from  our  abandoned  pasture,  over  the  snow, 
through  the  woods,  even  into  our  own  gardens.  Let  us 
return  once  more  to  the  sunny  slope  where  the  stray 
sheep  wander  and  the  finches  dart  and  dip  above  the 
nodding  thistle-tops.  The  small  wild  apples  are  al- 
ready forming  in  the  trees,  for  future  harvest.  The 
little  trickle  of  water  which  runs  away  from  the  spring 
over  a  ribbon  of  emerald  grass  into  the  woods,  tempts 
our  feet  for  another  brief  excursion,  till  we  stand  on  the 
edge  of  a  swamp  and  see  amid  the  weeds  the  winding 
canals  of  the  muskrats,  where  they  swim  in  their  search 
for  lily-roots.  As  we  retrace  our  steps  a  squirrel  chat- 
ters at  us  amid  the  pines,  and  when,  a  moment  later,  we 
break  into  the  clearing  once  more,  a  startled  cock 
pheasant  rises  from  his  feeding  and  skims  away,  his 


116    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

long  tail-feathers  streaming  out  behind  like  the  rudder 
of  a  monoplane.  The  summer  afternoon  is  very  still, 
yet  a  hundred  sounds  are  audible — the  chime  of  crickets, 
the  hum  of  bees,  the  croak  of  a  frog  in  the  spring,  the 
sweet  cheeps  and  liquid  songs  of  the  birds,  the  murmur 
of  a  lazy  wind  in  the  pines.  How  delicate,  how  peace- 
ful, these  sounds  are!  How  unpro vocative  of  tiring 
thought  or  senseless  worry  is  this  pasture  solitude! 
Here  the  beasts  of  the  wood  and  birds  of  the  air  find 
nourishment  and  go  happily  about  their  woodland  har- 
vesting. The  declining  sun  bathes  all  the  slope  in  "the 
golden  light  of  afternoon,"  and  pushes  its  beams  down 
the  forest  aisles  to  play  tag  with  the  shadows.  We  lie 
quiet  beside  the  spring,  and  see  a  rabbit  hop  across  one 
of  these  aisles,  his  tail  flashing  white,  and  make  for  the 
shelter  of  a  young  pine  thicket.  A  catbird  mews  by  the 
raspberries.  Out  of  the  deep  wood  rings  the  elfin 
clarion  of  a  thrush.  It  is  a  little  world  of  little  creatures, 
toiling  happily  for  their  bread;  and  yet  the  soul  feels 
for  them  all  a  curious  kinship,  here  in  this  silent  pasture 
where  the  shadows  lengthen  and  the  rising  sea-surf  mur- 
murs in  the  pines.  To  shoot  the  least  and  smallest 
would  be  to  break  with  murderous  hands  the  bonds 
which  link  Nature  into  unity.  The  drumming  par- 
tridge, the  thrush  which  in  shadowed  thicket  sounds  his 
liquid  call,  the  poet  with  his  verse — how  much  of  star- 
dust  is  in  each?  It  is  only  the  rash  man  who  attempts 
the  answer  with  a  gun. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT 

A  BELATED  snow  had  fallen,  the  glass  went 
down  ten  degrees  and  sleigh-bells  again  jingled.  It 
was  the  last  Parthian  shot  of  the  retreating  Winter. 
Three  days  before  I  had  been  working  in  the  garden 
spading  out  my  cold-frames,  while  the  song-sparrows 
and  robins  were  heralding  the  Spring.  This  un- 
expected return  of  Winter  drove  the  poor  sparrows  in 
close  for  refuge.  Two  of  them  found  shelter  in  the 
woodshed.  Going  out  on  the  porch  the  morning  after 
the  storm,  I  saw  innumerable  bird  tracks  in  the  sifted 
snow-powder  on  the  floor — hop,  hop,  hop,  everywhere. 
A  pound  of  suet  had  been  completely  devoured  in 
twenty-four  hours.  I  went  down  in  the  garden  to  look 
for  the  rabbit  which  has  visited  there  all  winter.  He 
had  been  across  the  snow  for  his  breakfast  before  I  was 
up,  jumping  steadily  and  straight  for  the  lettuce  bed, 
his  small  fore  feet  coming  down  first  and  his  long  hind 
feet  swinging  on  either  side  and  coming  down  a  couple 
of  inches  ahead.  The  frost  caught  a  good  deal  of 
young  lettuce  in  the  Fall,  and  the  snow  has  kept  it  in 
cold  storage  for  him.  He  doesn't  live  in  our  garden, 

117 


118    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

though,  but  merely  feeds  there.  He  lives  two  lots  away, 
in  a  pile  of  straw  round  a  rambler  rose-bush.  Our 
dogs  often  try  to  catch  him,  but  he  is  too  clever.  The 
other  day,  before  this  spring  snowfall,  I  was  in  the 
garden  with  the  dogs.  We  saw  nothing.  Hickey,  how- 
ever, picked  up  a  scent  and  began  following  it  over 
the  brown  soil.  Suddenly,  under  the  terrier's  nose,  the 
dead,  brown  lump  of  a  cauliflower  plant  came  to  life  and 
began  to  jump.  The  dogs  were  after  it,  in  full  cry.  Br'er 
Rabbit  doubled  and  gained  a  few  steps,  but  the  dogs 
closed  on  him.  Again  he  doubled,  and  this  time  made 
for  a  sheet  of  ice  in  the  shadow  behind  the  house.  The 
instant  his  feet  struck  this  ice  he  doubled  again.  The 
dogs  slid  ten  feet,  helplessly.  This  gave  him  the  time  he 
needed.  He  disappeared  under  the  fence,  like  a  vanish- 
ing ball  of  white  worsted,  and  left  the  dogs  baying  their 
rage. 

Our  house  is  on  the  main  street  of  a  populous  village 
in  the  Berkshires,  yet  this  rabbit  has  left  his  tracks  in 
the  snow  this  Winter  clear  out  to  the  front  sidewalk. 
He  is  a  wild  rabbit,  too,  not  an  escaped  pet.  After  the 
snow  came  in  the  Autumn,  in  addition  to  his  track  and, 
of  course,  the  innumerable  tracks  of  squirrels  under  the 
evergreens  and  of  snowbirds  around  the  crumb  tray  at 
the  back  door,  I  used  to  find  record  in  the  morning  of 
unexpected  night  visitors.  A  skunk  tracked  several 
times  up  from  the  swamp  behind  to  the  garbage  pail. 
Some  years  ago  a  wealthy  resident  of  our  hills  stocked 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     119 

his  game  preserve  with  English  pheasants,  which  have 
now  spread  over  the  county.  The  pheasant  is  a 
walker.  You  cannot  mistake  his  tracks,  for  he  puts  one 
foot  neatly  down  directly  in  front  of  the  other,  making  a 
clean  impression,  as  if  he  had  picked  it  up  again  very 
carefully.  One  morning  I  found  close  to  the  house  the 
end  of  a  pheasant's  trail.  Something  had  evidently 
scared  him  and  he  had  risen  from  the  ground,  brushing 
the  snow  on  both  sides  with  the  first  flap  of  his  wings. 
Curious  to  see  how  far  he  had  walked,  I  put  on  my 
pedometer  and  followed  that  trail.  It  led  me  through 
my  little  swamp,  up  the  hill  through  a  neighbour's  yard, 
across  the  road,  through  a  spruce  hedge,  across  the  great 
lawn  of  a  big  summer  estate,  into  the  woods  behind.  I 
put  on  my  snow-shoes  in  the  woods  and  kept  on.  The 
trail  finally  ceased  in  a  brush-heap,  where  the  snow  was 
tracked  all  about  and  in  one  place  scratched  through  to 
the  brown  leaves.  That  pheasant  had  walked  exactly 
one  mile  and  a  quarter — a  long  walk  for  a  bird !  And  in 
all  that  distance  there  was  no  sign  that  he  had  stopped 
to  scratch  for  food.  It  was  as  if  he  had  set  out  deliber- 
ately to  walk  to  my  house.  I  could  not  flatter  myself 
that  such  was  the  case;  doubtless  some  sense  of  his  had 
told  him  it  was  useless  to  scratch,  or  perhaps  he  had  fed 
from  the  bushes  through  which  he  had  walked.  But 
his  trail  was  without  a  break. 

My  collie  tracks  like  a  fox,  making,  that  is,  but  two 
marks  instead  of  four.     But  of  course  his  stride  is 


120    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

longer  and  his  feet  are  much  larger,  with  a  deeper  im- 
press, for  he  weighs  three  times  as  much  as  a  fox.  There 
was  no  mistaking,  then,  one  morning  after  a  fresh,  light 
snowfall,  the  trail  of  a  fox  across  the  garden.  We  have 
no  chickens,  and  I  was  surprised  that  he  had  crossed  our 
lot,  till  I  followed  the  trail.  He  had  come  up  on  the  ice 
of  the  sluggish,  sunken  brook  behind,  thus  being  con- 
cealed by  the  high  banks,  had  turned  out  in  my  back- 
yard and  followed  the  shelter  of  the  fence  up  to  the 
garden,  crossed  that,  gone  through  the  fence  on  the 
other  side,  and  drawn  near  a  chicken-coop.  But  some- 
thing had  then  frightened  him — the  bark  of  a  dog  per- 
haps— for  his  tracks  suddenly  swerved,  turned  from  a 
lope  to  a  gallop,  and  he  streaked  for  the  sunken  brook 
again.  Once  there,  he  had  settled  down  to  his  old  pace 
and  gone  on  his  way. 

On  this  same  brook  I  have  occasionally  found  the 
track  of  a  mink,  coming  up,  no  doubt,  from  the  more  se- 
cluded river  to  reach  the  chicken-and-duck  farm  near 
the  source.  The  mink,  when  he  is  taking  it  easy  and  the 
snow  is  deep  and  soft,  makes  paw  tracks  on  either  side 
of  a  line  drawn  by  his  tail.  He  is  a  crafty  animal,  and 
we  have  but  one  boy  in  town  who  can  trap  him.  My 
wife,  not  usually  bloodthirsty,  looked  sadly  at  those 
tracks  in  our  backyard.  "  To  think  of  mink  going  right 
past  our  house,"  she  sighed,  "and  my  old  furs  so 
shabby!"  Woman's  tenderness  curiously  breaks  down 
at  certain  points. 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     121 

We  have  had  weasels  in  the  yard,  too,  though  I  have 
never  seen  one  there.  The  weasel  is  a  land  mink,  or, 
rather,  the  mink  is  a  water  weasel.  A  song  of  my  boy- 
hood used  to  affirm  that  "Pop  goes  the  weasel."  From 
his  tracks  it  is  certain  that  he  goes  hop.  He  never 
seems  to  walk,  like  his  brother  the  mink,  who  has  his 
leisure  moments,  but  always  to  leap,  landing  with  feet 
bunched,  and  rising  almost  from  two  tracks,  side  by 
side,  almost  an  inch  apart,  instead  of  the  usual  four  of  a 
squirrel.  The  tracks  in  my  yard  showed  that  the 
weasel  was  clearing  a  little  more  than  a  foot  at  a  bound. 
He ,  came  up  to  investigate  a  pile  of  dead  apple-tree  trim- 
mings, and  jumped  all  around  the  pile.  Then,  evidently 
finding  nothing  he  wanted,  he  made  off  again.  But 
when  a  weasel  is  badly  frightened  he  has  the  leaping 
ability  of  a  flea,  and  will  clear  sometimes  as  much  as  ten 
feet. 

Let  us  follow  the  weasel  out  of  the  yard  into  the  wilder 
countryside.  He  likes  to  live  in  pine  stumps  or  by  old 
stone  walls,  and  he  is  an  eager,  savage  little  hunter. 
Sometimes  you  may  find  in  the  snow  his  leaping  trail 
closing  in  with  that  of  a  cottontail,  and  then  the  marks 
of  blood.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  you  may  be  rewarded 
by  a  sight  of  the  weasel  himself,  his  beady,  slightly 
bulging  black  eyes  looking  intently  straight  ahead  over 
the  black  tip  of  his  nose.  His  back  is  brownish  and  his 
tail-tip  is  black,  but  the  rest  of  him  is  so  white  that  he 
seems  two  black  eyes  set  in  white,  as  preternaturally 


122    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

alert  as  his  body — a  wild  and  beautiful  little  animal  on 
the  snow. 

It  is  a  clear,  crisp  morning  when  you  set  out.  There 
was  a  snowfall  the  day  before  yesterday — not  yesterday, 
because  animals  usually  remain  in  their  holes  several 
hours  after  a  storm.  The  countryside  is  spangled 
white.  The  rusty  tamaracks  in  the  swamps,  the  tawny 
roadside  willows,  the  delicate  lilac  of  the  bare  black- 
berry vines,  give  a  note  of  subdued  but  rich  colour  to  the 
landscape.  From  the  village  behind,  wood-smoke  rises 
in  the  still  air.  Ahead,  you  see  the  slender  second- 
growth  trees  up  the  mountains  like  a  delicate  cross- 
hatching  made  with  gray  crayon  on  a  white  ground. 
The  world  is  lovely,  but  not  wild.  Winter  is  in  her  best 
mood.  Not  a  mile  from  home  you  enter  the  still 
woods,  where  there  is  no  sign  of  life  save  for  an  occas- 
ional squirrel  or  chickadee,  but  where,  through  a  break 
in  the  trees  or  over  the  wall  where  the  weasel  lives,  you 
can  still  see  the  village  spire.  What  wild  things  passed 
through  here  last  night?  None,  surely,  for  the  high- 
school  sleigh-ride  party  went  shouting  by  on  the  road. 
But  let  us  look  at  the  telltale  snow  and  see. 

Here  is  a  little  clearing,  a  small  meadow  or  forest 
lawn,  no  doubt.  The  snow  by  the  border  is  all  crossed 
and  recrossed  with  a  delicate,  lacy  design,  made  by  tiny 
feet.  See,  between  the  prints  often  trails  a  line.  This 
little  four-footed  creature  had  a  tail.  But  why  do  the 
tracks  here  cover  the  snow  like  lacework?  There  was  a 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     123 

moon  last  night.  That  was  why  the  high  school  went 
on  a  sleigh-ride,  and  why  the  deer-mice  danced!  Had 
you  been  hidden  at  the  edge  of  this  bit  of  moon-blanched 
open,  you  might  have  seen  them,  like  tiny  sprites,  or  like 
dead,  curled-up  russet-brown  oak  leaves  wind-blown 
over  the  snow,  with  their  tails  for  stems.  Follow  one  of 
the  tracks  back  from  the  open.  It  leads  to  a  rotten 
old  stump.  Inside,  somewhere,  the  mouse  is  sleeping. 

We  have  passed  Mr.  Weasel's  wall,  and  the  spot 
where  the  deer-mice  danced.  Keeping  our  eyes  to  the 
ground,  we  see  innumerable  squirrel  tracks,  groups  of 
four  prints,  sometimes  three  feet  apart  when  the  squir- 
rel took  a  long  bound,  and  every  now  and  again  they 
disappear  into  a  round  hole  in  the  snow.  Usually  there 
is  a  second  hole  a  few  feet  farther  on.  The  squirrel 
came  up  again  probably  with  a  cone.  Follow  his  track, 
and  it  will  lead  to  the  base  of  a  tree  or  an  old  stump,  and 
there  you  will  find  fresh  bits  of  the  cone — crumbs  from 
his  table.  You  will  find  tracks  of  partridges,  too,  and 
places  where  they  have  scratched  the  snow  on  a 
southern  bank  till  the  fresh  green  of  the  partridge-berry 
vines  gleams  through,  and  perhaps  a  red  berry  or  two, 
overlooked  by  the  bird.  Squirrels  and  partridges,  to  be 
sure,  are  day  neighbours  rather  than  night,  but  you  may 
be  certain  they  were  up  earlier  than  we  were. 

The  woods  are  getting  a  little  wilder  now.  We  come 
upon  an  open  place  where  the  snow  is  trodden  down  by 
large  animals.  In  the  centre  are  the  remnants  of  a 


124    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

ground-hemlock  (or  "snake  bush,"  as  we  call  it  in 
Massachusetts) — the  Taxus  Canadensis.  It  is  eaten 
down  to  the  last  leaf,  as  close  to  the  snow  as  if  a  scythe 
had  been  swept  over  it.  The  snow  is  covered  with  the 
unmistakable  hoof-prints  of  deer.  These  tracks  are 
fresh.  The  deer  were  here  last  night,  two  of  them  at 
least,  for  two  tracks  lead  off  to  the  west,  the  larger  one 
trailing  the  hind  feet  a  trifle,  in  snow  more  than  six 
inches  deep,  showing  it  to  be  made  by  a  buck.  The  doe 
picks  her  feet  up  cleaner.  She  is  the  high  stepper  of  the 
family.  She  also  toes  straight  ahead,  while  the  buck 
toes  out  a  trifle,  a  reversal  of  the  typical  human  couple. 

Now  there  is  a  break  in  the  woods,  for  we  are  in 
populous  New  England.  We  come  into  cleared  land, 
into  a  farm.  An  old  orchard,  much  neglected,  runs 
along  behind  a  stone  wall  close  to  the  road.  As  we 
come  down  through  this  orchard  we  again  find  deer 
tracks,  quantities  of  them.  There  is  every  indication 
that  the  deer  were  here  last  night  pawing  up  the  snow 
under  the  gnarled  old  trees  for  the  frozen  windfalls  on 
the  ground  below.  Bits  of  frozen  rotten  apples  are  left 
here  and  there  to  tell  the  tale.  Last  night,  while  the 
farmer  was  sleeping,  or  even,  perhaps,  while  there  was 
still  a  light  in  his  window,  the  deer  came  into  his 
orchard  to  feed,  and  one  of  them,  when  a  horse  stamped 
in  the  stable,  raised  his  head  and  stood  a  shadowy, 
beautiful  statue  of  eternal  vigilance. 

Crossing  the  road  and  the  pasture,  we  shall  find  yet 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     125 

more  deer  tracks  by  the  sumac  bushes  before  we  enter 
the  woods  again.  Ground-hemlock,  old  apples,  and 
sumac  berries  seem  to  be  the  favourite  winter  food  of  the 
New  England  deer.  They  are  also  fond  of  lettuce  in 
season — a  farmer  in  Connecticut  told  me  last  summer 
they  came  into  his  kitchen  garden,  not  fifty  feet  from 
the  house,  and  ate  up  a  whole  row  of  lettuce  one  night, 
without  touching  anything  else  or  even  trampling  any- 
thing down.  Once  more  in  the  woods,  the  ground  grows 
broken,  rising  toward  the  rocks  at  the  base  of  the 
mountain.  Here  we  begin  to  look  for  the  tracks  of  the 
fox.  But  first  we  come  upon  cottontail  tracks,  cen- 
tring, in  our  northern  woods,  around  white-oak  shoots 
which  are  often  nibbled  down  to  the  snow.  Farther 
south  the  rabbit  eats  dogwood  shoots.  A  friend  of  mine 
once  watched  a  rabbit  feeding  close  to  a  young  hedge. 
A  red  Irish  terrier  came  by,  within  a  few  feet.  The 
rabbit,  which  had  just  bitten  off  a  shoot  six  inches  long, 
stopped  eating,  the  shoot  still  in  his  mouth,  and  shrank 
into  an  excellent  imitation  of  a  lump  of  earth.  The  dog 
passed  by  within  eight  feet  without  seeing  him,  came 
back  again  on  the  scent,  sniffed  around,  and  finally  dis- 
appeared. Meanwhile  the  rabbit  never  moved  a 
muscle.  When  the  dog  had  finally  gone,  the  rabbit 
went  on  absorbing  the  shoot,  end  foremost,  as  calmly  as 
if  his  life  had  never  been  in  peril.  So  our  rabbit  here,  by 
the  white-oak  twig  in  the  woods,  might  have  done  had  a 
fox  come  by. 


126    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

But  here  is  a  track  like  the  rabbit's,  only  larger,  with 
the  hind  feet  leaving  four  distinct  toe  marks,  and  nearly 
four  and  one-half  inches  long.  It  is  the  track  of  a  vary- 
ing hare,  or  snow-shoe  rabbit,  a  breed  once  common  in 
New  England  but  now  growing  more  and  more  rare.  He 
changes  to  white  in  winter,  unlike  the  cottontail.  I 
once  saw  one  cross  a  field  in  a  mild  December,  the  most 
conspicuous  thing  in  the  landscape.  Poor  fellow,  he 
was  protectively  coloured  for  snow,  and  the  weather 
man  had  disappointed  him.  He  is  so  rare  in  our  country 
now  that  to  find  his  track  in  the  woods  or  swamps  is 
something  of  an  adventure,  almost  like  finding  (as  we  did 
last  winter,  only  a  mile  from  home)  the  paw  marks  of  a 
wildcat.  Now  at  last  we  pick  up  the  track  of  a  fox. 

It  was  one  January  morning,  in  the  foxes'  mating 
season,  that  the  following  drama  was  disclosed  to  us  in 
the  snow.  The  stage  was  set  with  snow  and  rocks  and 
young  second-growth  timber,  not  three  hundred  yards 
back  from  a  farmhouse  and  a  country  road,  but  close  to 
the  mountain.  We  came  first  on  the  tracks  of  the 
heroine,  which  were  unmistakable.  She  was  walking, 
making  apparently  but  two  paw  marks  in  a  line.  Sud- 
denly she  began  to  gallop.  After  a  few  rods  another 
galloping  track  joined  with  hers  and  paralleled  it.  We 
followed  this  second  track  back  a  way.  The  hero  had 
been  bounding,  too,  but  only  for  a  short  distance.  Be- 
yond that  he  had  been  walking.  Slinking  through  the 
night,  he  had  heard  the  call  of  the  mating  season,  and 


had  suddenly  rushed  to  meet  his  fate.  We  went  back 
to  the  spot  where  the  two  converging  tracks  met,  and 
followed  them.  They  ran  parallel  for  a  time,  and  then 
there  were  signs  in  the  snow  that  the  heroine  had  grown 
less  coy,  had  paused  and  permitted  the  approach  of  her 
mate.  From  this  point  the  dual  tracks  radiated  in 
several  directions,  showing  less  signs  of  haste,  came  back 
again,  and  finally  made  off  zigzagging  through  the  tim- 
ber, toward  a  ledge  of  rocks  no  doubt  suggested  by  one 
or  the  other  as  a  home  possibility.  The  rocks  gained, 
the  tracks  led  straight  to  a  freshly  dug  hole  under  a 
crack  in  the  ledge.  There  was  even  fresh  earth  pawed 
up  on  the  snow.  No  tracks  led  away.  It  was  the  night 
before  that  the  drama  had  been  enacted,  and  in  their 
newly  built  home  the  couple  were  already  established. 
We  left  them  in  peace,  with  the  delicacy  due  to  honey- 
mooners. 

It  is  seldom,  to  be  sure,  that  you  will  find  so  perfect  a 
snow  record  as  that  of  the  actions  of  your  night  neigh- 
bours in  the  woods,  yet  a  little  watchfulness  on  the  win- 
ter walk  will  disclose  much  about  those  wild  folk  that 
will  give  a  basis  for  reconstructing  their  habits,  till  your 
imagination  can  people  the  st  11,  snowy  places,  from  the 
mountain-top  even  to  your  front  door,  with  mysterious 
inhabitants  of  the  dark.  The  pleasure  of  picking  up  a 
trail  behind  the  house  and  running  it  back  into  the 
woods  for  two  or  three  miles  is  not  lightly  to  be  dis- 
missed. Sometimes  my  visitors  from  town  look  with  a 


128    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

supercilious  tolerance  upon  this  sport.  They  even 
suggest  that  it  very  closely  resembles  the  sport  of  dogs, 
who  tear  madly  through  the  woods  on  a  scent,  or  the 
hare-and-hound  chases  of  boys,  who  track  one  another 
through  the  snow.  Of  course  they  are  right.  It  does 
closely  resemble  the  sport  of  dog  and  boy.  That  is  one 
of  its  charms. 

But  it  has  another  charm,  which  they  do  not  realize 
until  they,  too,  have  indulged  in  it,  properly  clad  and 
properly  led.  It  brings  us  as  no  mere  aimless  walking 
can,  nor  any  hunting  expedition  with  rifle  or  shotgun, 
into  ultimate  touch  with  the  life  of  Nature,  and  gives  a 
new  interest,  an  almost  human  neighbourly  note,  to  the 
woods  and  fields  which  border  our  dwellings. 

My  wife  and  I  went  for  a  tramp  a  day  or  two  after  the 
belated  snow-storm  I  spoke  of.  The  world  was  still 
white,  but  Spring  was  curiously  in  the  air  again,  and 
behind  the  hemlock  hedge  of  a  deserted  formal  garden 
on  a  summer  estate  two  song-sparrows  were  singing  a 
duet.  We  walked  up  the  hill  behind  a  neighbouring 
farm,  and  came  upon  the  track  of  a  woodchuck.  Spring 
had  tempted  him  out  of  his  winter  quarters  (he  came 
out,  of  course,  on  Candlemas  Day,  but  ducked  back 
again  this  year),  and  he  had  crossed  the  pasture  rather 
aimlessly,  evidently  wondering  whether  this  snow 
meant  that  he  should  go  back  to  sleep  or  not.  He  toed 
in  more  than  most  of  his  kind — a  comical  trail.  At  the 
next  fence  was  the  track  of  a  fox.  It  kept  within  three 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     129 

feet  of  the  fence  all  the  way  down  to  the  inclosed  winter 
cow  pasture  behind  the  barns,  and  was  there  lost  in  the 
trample  of  cattle-prints.  But  back  toward  the  wooded 
hill  it  was  distinct  enough.  We  followed  it.  After  the 
sly  manner  of  his  kind,  the  fox  had  kept  close  to  what 
cover  a  rail  fence  provided,  all  the  way  across  the  pas- 
ture. Once  or  twice  he  had  stopped  to  listen,  planting 
an  extra  paw  mark. 

When  we  entered  the  woods  we  found  that  the  trail 
came  down  from  the  summit  of  a  steep,  rocky  hill  which 
is  part  of  a  town  park,  but  preserved  in  its  native  wild- 
ness.  The  side  of  this  hill  is  thickly  sprinkled  with 
laurel  bushes.  Slipping  and  falling  in  the  deep,  soft 
snow,  we  scrambled  up  the  rocky  slope  on  the  trail.  The 
fox  had  not  abandoned  his  cunning  even  in  the  deep 
woods.  He  had  so  zigzagged  down  the  hill  that  he  had 
been  almost  constantly  protected  by  laurel  bushes. 
There  was  a  young  moon  last  night,  and  we  could  im- 
agine him  slinking  down  under  the  projecting  waxy 
leaves  toward  that  delectable  duck  yard  on  the  distant 
farm.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  we  hoped  to  find  his  nest 
among  the  piles  of  broken  bowlders,  but  when  we 
reached  the  summit  a  great  wind-blown  ledge  had 
melted  bare.  Across  this  he  had  evidently  walked,  but 
we  could  find  no  sign  of  the  trail  on  the  other  side.  The 
sun  had  probably  melted  it  out.  We  had  to  abandon 
the  chase. 

Instead,  still  panting  with  the  slippery  climb,  we 


130    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

looked  off  over  the  dazzling,  snowy  world,  over  our 
beautiful  valley  with  its  red  and  white  houses,  its 
steeples  and  winding  river,  to  the  bounding  ring  of 
amethyst  hills.  Last  night  that  same  scene  had  slept 
under  the  moon,  and  out  on  this  ledge  had  come  the 
little  red  form  of  a  fox  and  sniffed  the  wind,  and  then, 
slipping  like  a  shadow  into  the  cover  of  the  laurels,  had 
sneaked  down  the  slope.  No  one  saw  him.  No  one 
ever  sees  him,  though  this  rock  is  in  a  town  park.  Yet 
he  lives  here.  He  is  our  neighbour  in  the  night,  and 
takes  possession  of  his  own  while  we  slumber.  There 
was  the  proof  of  it  on  the  snow  at  our  feet. 

In  Massachusetts  there  is  a  week  in  November  when 
it  is  permissible  to  shoot  deer.  As  rifles  are  not  allowed, 
however,  our  brave  hunters  go  out  with  shotguns 
loaded  with  buckshot,  and  later  attract  the  admiring 
attention  of  the  village  by  driving  through  with  a  poor 
deer's  head  lolling  over  the  tailboard — perhaps.  That 
open  week  in  November  probably  explained  our  lame 
buck.  When  we  first  saw  his  tracks  he  was  trailing  his 
right  hind  leg  badly;  he  was  stopping  frequently  to  lie 
down,  every  hundred  feet  at  first,  and  where  he  rested 
there  would  be  traces  of  blood.  He  was  one  of  a  small 
herd.  Week  after  week  we  came  across  records  of  this 
herd — ground-hemlock  eaten  down  to  the  snow,  tram- 
pled sumac  bushes,  old  orchards  pawed  up,  and  hoof- 
prints  tracking  through  the  deep  snow  of  the  woods. 
And  always  the  right  hind  leg  of  the  buck  was  dragged. 


NEIGHBOURS  OF  THE  WINTER  NIGHT     131 

Once  a  farmer  up  the  road  saw  him  limping  at  early 
morning  through  a  pasture.  But  the  blood  stains  dis- 
appeared after  a  short  time,  and  gradually  the  leg 
trailed  less.  He  was  evidently  getting  well. 

We  soon  came  to  take  a  personal  interest  in  the  for- 
tunes of  that  buck.  Every  few  days  we  would  go 
where  we  thought  the  herd  might  have  fed  and  look  for 
his  trail.  Fortunately  the  snow  stayed  on  the  ground 
without  melting,  with  several  new  falls,  for  more  than  two 
months,  and  the  herd,  too,  remained  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. We  were  able  to  convince  ourselves  that  the  old 
buck  was  finally  almost  as  good  as  new,  though  he  still 
trailed  that  right  hoof  a  trifle  more  than  the  left,  and  did 
not  tread  up  so  close  to  the  fore  leg  with  it  as  with  the 
other.  About  the  first  of  March  a  party  of  trampers 
startled  the  herd  in  the  woods.  The  deer,  six  of  them, 
in  full  view,  made  a  break  for  a  swamp,  and  from  that 
day  we  saw  no  more  fresh  deer  tracks.  It  is  curious 
how  close  they  had  come  to  our  houses,  even  feeding  by 
night  in  our  very  orchards,  and  yet  how  easily  they  were 
frightened  away.  I  never  got  a  glimpse  of  them  myself, 
though  I  saw  their  tracks  almost  daily.  Yet  by  this 
sport  of  tracking  alone  I  was  able  to  follow  them  through 
the  woods  and  to  live  a  little  their  wild  life.  The  record 
of  their  night  prowlings  gave  a  new  charm  and  wildness 
to  our  fields  and  forests. 

There  is  one  more  track  I  shall  look  for  in  the  timber 
on  Rattlesnake  Hill  before  the  snow  is  quite  gone.  It  is 


132    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  most  curious  and  interesting  track  of  all,  exactly  like 
the  print  of  a  tiny  baby's  shrivelled  foot.  Mr.  Coon 
hibernates,  of  course,  but  Spring  is  in  the  air  long  before 
the  snow  melts  in  the  mountain  woods,  and  he  often 
comes  forth  in  time  to  leave  his  quaint  f ootprints  on  the 
remnants  of  a  drift.  Coon-hunts  at  night,  with  dogs, 
lanterns,  and  guns,  are  sometimes  exciting  and  always 
exhausting,  but  they  never  yield  me  quite  the  satisfac- 
tion of  finding  that  little  snow-print  record  not  two 
miles  from  my  home,  of  searching  in  muddy  spots  near 
by  for  further  tracks,  of  living  in  fancy  the  scene  of  the 
night  before — the  still,  dark  woods,  just  budding  with 
Spring,  the  sleepy  boom  of  the  hours  from  the  distant 
steeple  in  the  village,  the  sharp-nosed  little  face  emerg- 
ing from  a  rotten  tree  trunk,  then  the  scramble  down, 
with  the  soft  thud,  perhaps,  of  a  piece  of  dislodged  bark, 
and  the  midnight  hunting. 

Even  our  tamest  woods  and  fields,  even  our  own 
suburban  backyards,  shelter  their  wild  life.  We  have 
neighbours  in  the  night,  though  we  know  it  not.  They 
leave  their  records  behind  them  in  the  snow  for  seeing 
eyes,  and  to  read  those  records  aright  is  to  read  a  little 
deeper  into  the  book  of  Nature.  The  man  who  goes  to 
walk  with  his  nose  to  the  snow  is  sometimes  thought  a 
crank,  sometimes  a  bore.  Perhaps  he  is  both.  But 
you  can  never  make  him  believe  it;  or,  we  might  better 
say,  you  cannot  make  him  care  if  he  is!  It  is  not  you 
but  his  wild  neighbours  he  is  thinking  of. 


CHAPTER  IX 
STONE  WALLS 

MY  GRANDFATHER  was  a  man  of  great  physical 
prowess.  When  I  was  a  little  chap  he  used  to  sit 
me  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  hold  me  out  at  arm's 
length;  and  at  a  slightly  later  period  he  would  regale 
me  with  sagas  of  his  mighty  deeds.  One  of  these 
deeds,  I  well  remember,  was  the  erection  of  a  long 
stone  wall.  For  some  reason,  this  wall  had  to  be  con- 
structed in  as  short  a  time  as  possible,  and  Grandfather 
built  so  much  the  first  day  that  it  took  him  two  days  to 
walk  back  to  the  starting  point!  Grandfather  was  a 
Yankee,  and  so  was  I.  He  knew  that  I  knew  that  such 
a  feat  was  impossible,  and  I  knew  that  he  knew  that  I 
knew.  This  made  us  great  friends.  And  yet  I  half  be- 
lieved him !  Besides,  he  once  took  me  to  a  piece  of  that 
very  wall,  and  challenged  me  to  doubt  his  story  then. 
It  was  a  long  walk,  consuming  the  better  part  of  an 
afternoon.  Though  we  stopped  a  while  on  Huckleberry 
Hill  to  get  our  mouths  black  with  the  delicious  fruit, 
which  is  never  sold  in  the  city  markets  (no,  they  are  not 
huckleberries,  they  are  various  sorts  of  blueberries, 
which  are  quite  different,  botanically  and  gastronom- 

133 


134    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

ically).  After  we  left  Huckleberry  Hill  we  crossed  a 
meadow  and  entered  the  woods,  following  a  dim  cart 
track  for  a  long  way,  till  we  suddenly  came  upon  the 
mossy  ruins  of  a  stone  wall,  in  the  heart  of  the  scrub 
timber. 

"There!"  exclaimed  my  grandfather.  "There  she 
is!  You  see,  the  wall  must  have  come  from  a  long  way 
off  to  get  here." 

"But  why  did  you  build  a  wall  through  the  woods?" 
I  asked. 

"There  were  no  woods  here  when  this  wall  was  built," 
Grandfather  answered — and  I  knew  that  he  was  telling 
me  the  truth  now,  for  the  funny  little  squint  had  gone 
out  of  his  blue  eyes.  "My  father  kept  sheep,  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  sheep,  and  this  was  part  of  their  graz- 
ing land.  Why,  my  mother  used  to  weave  my  clothes 
herself,  and  they  were  warmer  than  the  ones  you  buy 
in  Boston,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"What  became  of  the  sheep?"  said  I,  "and  have  all 
these  woods  grown  up  since  you  were  a  boy?  And 
how  did  your  mother — she  was  my  great-grandmother, 
wasn't  she? — weave  clothes?  And  did  you  use  to  help 
shear  the  sheep?  And 

"Yes — and  no,"  my  grandfather  laughed.  "The 
woods  have  all  grown  up  since  I  was  a  young  man,  and 
the  sheep  have  all  made  chops  for  little  boys  to  eat, 
and  nobody  remembers  how  to  make  cloth  any  more." 

"Why?  "I  asked. 


STONE  WALLS  135 

It  seems  to  me  I  can  still  recall  the  curious  look  on 
my  grandfather's  face,  as  he  answered,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  Tennyson,  "The  old  ways  change.  They 
make  cloth  in  big  factories  now,  and  raise  sheep  by  the 
hundred  thousand  out  West.  That  old  wall  is  to  me  a 
kind  of  monument." 

His  words,  of  course,  had  little  meaning  to  my  child- 
ish mind,  but  his  manner  curiously  impressed  me,  and 
I  stood  silent  beside  him  and  looked  at  the  mossy, 
ruined  wall,  which  ran  over  ridges  and  dipped  into 
hollows  till  it  was  lost  to  view  in  the  gloom  of  the 
chestnuts  and  maples.  But  his  words  have  come  back 
to  me  since,  many  and  many  a  time,  in  my  wanderings 
about  New  England,  and  to  me,  too,  an  old  stone  wall 
suddenly  discovered  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  is  a 
melancholy  monument  to  the  ancient  regime,  to  a 
vanished  order — a  boundary  line  which  once  marked  a 
clearing,  invaded  now  and  recaptured  by  the  forest. 
The  corollary  of  the  old  wall  in  the  woods  is  the  in- 
creased population  of  our  cities,  it  is  factories  and  con- 
gested industry.  It  is  something  curiously  and  harshly 
at  variance  with  the  immediate  scene — the  mottled 
shadows  of  the  woods,  the  throb  of  a  thrush,  the  sway- 
ing stems  of  the  Solomon's  seal,  the  chatter  of  a  squirrel 
running  along  the  green  and  gray  stones  and  leaping  up 
a  trunk  which  has  pushed  a  whole  section  of  the  wall 
down  into  a  loose  heap. 

New  England  is  a  land  of  stone  walls  (stone  fences, 


136    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

visitors  from  alien  regions  sometimes  call  them,  as 
they  call  our  doughnuts  crullers);  and  it  often  seems 
to  me  as  if  my  earliest  recollections  of  natural  scenes 
were  invariably  circumscribed  by  a  line  of  piled  gray 
field-stone — circumscribed  but  not  imprisoned,  for  al- 
ways I  could  climb  the  wall  and  look  forth  over  the 
field  beyond  to  the  next  one.  "Stone  walls  do  not  a 
prison  make,*'  except  for  silly  cows.  But  how  they 
rib  and  pattern  our  rolling,  hilly  New  England,  over 
dome  and  dale,  in  sun  and  shower,  lines  of  the  land- 
scape as  immutable  now  as  the  hills  themselves !  Every 
field  must  be  cleared  of  stones  for  tillage,  and  the  easiest 
way  to  dispose  of  the  stones  is  to  build  a  wall  with 
them.  And  how  many  stones  there  are!  A  certain 
lecturer  in  Boston  used  to  have  a  story  which  never 
failed  to  arouse  his  audience.  He  was  travelling  in 
New  Hampshire,  he  said,  and  came  upon  a  farmer  in  a 
field,  with  a  derrick  rigged  up  over  two  bowlders  parted 
by  a  narrow  cleft. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  the  farmer. 

"  Wall,  there's  a  blade  o*  grass  down  in  that  gol  dern 
cleft,"  the  farmer  replied,  "and  I  gotter  git  it  up  be- 
fore my  keow  starves." 

"Such  is  farming  in  New  Hampshire,"  said  this 
lecturer,  thereby  proving  the  hardihood  and  courage  of 
the  New  England  pioneers. 

From  the  summit  of  any  of  our  hills,  you  see  New 
England  as  a  crazy  quilt.  Our  fields  are  not  laid  out 


STONE  WALLS  137 

on  the  gridiron  plan,  like  the  farms  of  Illinois.  Na- 
ture was  their  original  architect,  and  man  has  followed 
her  design.  It  was  always  easiest  to  roll  the  stones 
cleared  from  field  or  pasture  into  the  first  hollow,  so 
that  we  have  achieved  over  and  over  again  not  only  a 
charming  irregularity  of  pattern,  but  that  most  beau- 
tiful of  single  effects,  the  domed  field,  where  zebra 
stripes  curve  up  against  the  sky  when  the  first  snow 
scud  fills  the  autumn  furrows,  and  in  lush  midsummer 
wave  after  billowing  wave  of  rye  ripple  down  on  the 
wind  against  the  breakwater  of  the  gray  stone  wall. 

Ascend  any  considerable  hill  in  cultivated  New 
England,  whether  it  be  in  Thoreau's  haunts  through 
Middlesex  or  Monument  Mountain  in  the  Berkshires, 
which  Hawthorne  and  Herman  Melville  climbed  to- 
gether and  which  Bryant  celebrated  in  his  verse,  and 
you  will  see  the  crazy-quilt  pattern  of  fields  and  pas- 
tures spread  out  below  you,  stitched  with  stone  walls. 
Golden  grain  and  brown  stubble,  green  pasture  and 
tasselled  corn,  neglected  fields  of  yellow  "hardback," 
acres  where  the  cows  crop  and  wander  amid  the  great 
pink  laurel  shrubs — no  matter  what  the  season,  there  is 
always  infinite  variety  of  colour  and  texture  in  the  dif- 
ferent patches  of  the  quilt,  always  an  infinite  variety  in 
their  shape,  determined  by  the  contours  of  the  land;  and 
always  the  stone  walls  stitch  the  patches  together,  the 
quilt  is  sewn  with  gray  and  green  — green  because  every 
wall  is  bordered  with  shrubs  and  wild  flowers.  In  a  hilly 


138    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

country  one  does  not  need  an  aeroplane  to  show  him 
the  pattern  of  the  land.  He  may,  by  ascending  any 
summit,  see  the  world  as  the  birds  see  it.  The  ideal  way 
to  teach  a  child  the  use  of  maps  would  be  to  take  him 
up  on  a  hilltop  above  his  native  village.  There  is  a 
living  map  below  him,  with  his  father's  boundaries 
marked  in  stone. 

We  have  all  heard  of  the  hedgerows  of  old  England. 
They  have  been  so  celebrated  by  the  poets  that  even 
those  of  us  who  have  never  walked  in  English  lanes 
seem  to  know  them  familiarly.  But  who  will  sing  the 
hedgerows  of  New  England,  which  have  grown  up 
everywhere  along  stone  walls  and  fences  between  our 
homestead  farms  or  divided  fields?  Our  bird-sown 
hedgerows  are  to  the  hedges  of  England  what  the  wild 
garden  is  to  the  formal  border,  and  all  the  charm  and 
shy  surprises  of  the  wild  garden  are  theirs.  Neglected 
by  "sightseers,"  never  given  a  thought  by  the  farmers 
themselves,  uncelebrated  and  unsung,  they  march 
in  feathery  beauty  between  a  thousand  fields,  up  hill 
and  down,  bright  at  their  base  with  mulleins  and  milk- 
weed, with  roses  and  golden-rod,  harbouring  chipmunks 
within  the  old  wall  which 'is  their  spine,  and  white- 
throats  fluting  in  their  branches.  Birches  and  maples, 
poplars  and  dark  cedars,  now  and  then  a  chestnut, 
alders  in  the  hollows  where  the  wall  dips  to  a  brook, 
choke-cherries  where  the  robins  scold,  aspens  trembling 
to  the  wandering  winds  of  June,  hazel  bushes  and  dog- 


STONE  WALLS  139 

wood — the  variety  is  endless.  Even  a  pine,  sometimes, 
will  crown  an  eminence,  its  great  limbs  unrestricted  by 
surrounding  forest,  stretching  out  in  crabbed  hori- 
zontals like  a  cedar  of  Lebanon,  a  monarch  of  the 
pasture.  These  hedgerows  are  utterly  artless.  Be- 
cause neither  the  plough  nor  the  mower  can  go  quite 
to  the  wall,  long  ago  a  fringe  of  weeds  and  small  shrubs 
pushed  out  a  foot  or  two  on  either  side,  even  in  pastures 
cropped  by  cattle;  and  once  this  protecting  base  of 
shrubs  was  established  the  birds  and  mice  and  squirrels, 
even  the  courier  wind  bearing  maple  seeds  and  poplar 
down,  could  begin  successfully  to  plant  their  garden. 
As  the  years  passed,  and  the  trees  grew  taller  and 
stronger,  the  sumac  pushed  out  suckers  into  the  field, 
the  wild  flowers  massed  more  solidly  amid  the  shrub- 
bery, often  the  hedgerow  would  invade  the  clearing 
for  ten  feet  on  either  side  of  the  wall,  and  the  farmer 
would  have  to  attack  it,  trimming  it  back  to  the  best 
and  strongest  trees.  If  you  will  examine  one  of  these 
old  hedges  to-day  you  will  often  find,  when  you  have 
penetrated  through  the  tangle  of  shrubs  and  tall  mul- 
leins and  golden-rod  into  its  heart,  that  the  original 
wall  has  fallen  and  become  half  buried.  Perhaps  on 
top  of  it  a  rough  rail  fence  has  later  been  erected, 
which  now  also  has  gone  to  ruin,  while  as  the  latest 
barrier  to  prevent  an  ambitious  cow  from  squeezing 
through  into  the  corn  a  barbed  wire  has  been  strung 
along  the  trees — natural  fence  posts  which  will  not 


140    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

decay.  No  English  hedgerow  holds  such  a  record  of 
successive  generations,  from  the  first  clearing  of  the 
fields  and  the  erection  of  the  boundary  wall. 

And  what  a  good  time  the  dog  has  in  our  native 
hedges!  As  we  go  out  across  the  fields  of  a  summer 
afternoon,  he  bounds  along  beside  us,  picking  up  a 
woodchuck  scent  or  startled  into  sheepish  stillness  by 
the  sudden  uprush  of  a  meadow  lark,  but  keeping  pretty 
close  until  we  reach  the  long  hedgerow  which  sepa- 
rates a  twenty-acre  slope  of  mowing  from  a  fifteen-acre 
abandoned  pasture,  and  which  inarches  between  them 
up  the  steep  hill  to  the  woods  where  a  sentinel  chestnut 
marks  the  trail  to  the  mountain-top.  This  hedgerow  is 
chiefly  of  maple,  though  there  are  aspens  in  it,  and 
chestnut,  and  cherry  and  alder.  It  is  feathery  as 
a  Corot  in  the  level  light  of  afternoon,  and  it  twinkles 
in  the  clear  June  breeze.  It  is  ten  or  fifteen  feet  thick 
at  the  base,  almost  completely  concealing  the  original 
stone  wall  and  the  later  rail  fence,  while  the  heave  of 
the  tree  roots  and  the  accumulation  of  compost  has 
raised  the  ground  level  beneath  it  so  that  if  it  were  sud- 
denly cut  down  the  two  fields  would  be  separated  by  a 
considerable  mound.  When  we  reach  this  hedgerow, 
where  the  Peabodies  are  always  fluting  in  early  summer, 
the  dog  abandons  us.  The  hedge  holds  secrets  for 
him  which  we  can  only  guess.  We  see  his  hind  quarters 
and  his  tail  disappear  into  the  tangle,  and  hear  within 
the  crash  of  bushes,  the  grunts  and  pawings  of  a  canine 


STONE  WALLS  141 

on  the  hunt.  He  has  forgotten  us  in  the  joy  of  this 
cover,  and  we  walk  on  beside  the  hedge,  savouring  its 
wild  border  of  flowers  and  hearing  the  rustle  of  its 
leaves,  till  we  enter  the  woods  beyond,  and  presently 
the  dog  rejoins  us,  subdued  and  domestic  again,  and 
pokes  an  earthy  muzzle  into  our  hands. 

In  Winter  the  New  England  hedgerow,  stripped  of  its 
undergrowth  of  weeds  and  wild  flowers,  shows  more 
plainly  its  naked  spine  of  wall,  and  how  interesting  a 
thing  it  is  to  follow  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground,  for 
it  seems  to  be  both  haven  and  highway  for  innumerable 
little  creatures  of  the  field  and  forest.  The  tracks  of 
weasels  and  squirrels  lead  into  it;  the  rabbits  often  beat 
down  a  hard  little  path  beside  it,  a  regular  travelled  road 
between  feeding  grounds;  the  deer  come  to  it  for  the 
sumac;  the  juncos  and  other  winter  birds  perch  upon  it, 
or  in  the  trees  of  the  hedge,  and  flutter  down  to  feed  on 
the  weed  seeds  below.  How  permanent  the  wall  looks, 
too,  rising  gray  and  a  little  grim  above  the  snow,  like  an 
infantry  trench  imposed  against  the  charge  of  the 
cohorts  of  the  snow  and  storm.  Against  the  northern 
face  the  charge  has  piled  itself  till  it  reaches  the  top  of 
the  wall,  but  in  vain — it  has  gone  no  farther.  Defeat 
is  written  in  the  northward  sloping  drift,  which  packs 
down  harder  and  harder  as  Winter  advances.  On  the 
face  of  the  open  country  those  drifts  are  the  last  to  dis- 
appear in  Spring.  We  walk  through  the  soggy  fields 
late  in  March  and  see  them  everywhere,  grown  a  little 


142    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

dingy  with  dust  and  dead  leaves,  but  flecking  the  land- 
scape as  if  some  Titanic  artist  had  spattered  the  world 
with  a  brush  full  of  china  white.  They  slowly  recede 
into  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  and  suddenly  on  a  morning 
in  April,  when  the  song-sparrows  are  singing  and  the  sun 
is  hot  on  your  neck,  they  are  gone,  vanished  in  the 
night,  even  the  long  white  streak  across  the  highest  up- 
land pasture.  Then  we  know  that  Spring  has  come 
indeed. 

The  old  walls  or  fences  which  divide  a  country  high- 
way from  the  bounding  fields  are  always  alluring — al- 
most as  alluring  as  the  bars  which  occasionally  break 
their  line  and  invite  the  vagrant  wayfarer  to  explore 
down  a  lane  to  the  river  or  up  a  wood  road  into  the  green 
dimness  of  the  hills.  To  the  lover  of  gardens  they  are 
alluring  for  the  perfect  background  they  always  make  to 
the  wild  garden  of  the  roadside.  Even  in  Winter,  a 
gray  stone  wall  rising  above  the  snow,  with  the  lavender 
stalks  of  blackberry  vines  against  it,  is  a  lovely  thing. 
When  it  peeps  between  pink  roses  in  June,  or  wild  sun- 
flowers in  early  August  or  golden-rod  and  asters  in 
September,  here  a  round  gray  stone,  there  a  pinnacle  of 
quartz,  again  a  gap,  perhaps,  to  show  a  tiny  vista  of  the 
fields  beyond,  it  is  the  gardener's  envy  and  despair. 
Nor  is  the  roadside  fence  much  less  effective,  for  over  it 
the  clematis  scrambles  as  upon  a  trellis,  and  the  bitter- 
sweet vines  twine  till  they  can  find  a  tree  to  climb  and 
hang  out  their  red  berries  against  the  coming  Winter. 


STONE  WALLS  143 

The  split  rail,  or  Virginia  fence,  is  a  relic  of  a  happy 
day  when  we  could  afford  to  be  prodigal  with  lumber — 
or  thought  we  could.  It  was  never  common  in  New 
England,  though  not  unknown.  I  well  recall  one 
where  the  quail  nested  in  the  corners,  and  every  alter- 
nate triangle  of  the  snake  line  was  a  mass  of  blackcap 
raspberries.  The  whip-poor-wills  used  to  sing  upon  it, 
too,  in  the  summer  evenings — a  melancholy  song  which 
always  affected  me  with  that  indefinable  Weltschmerz 
peculiar  to  adolescence.  But  we  all  know  that  Lincoln 
split  the  rails  for  such  fences  in  Illinois,  where  a  stone  is 
as  rare  as  a  hill  to  coast  on,  and  in  Virginia  itself  you 
may  still  see  them,  mellowed  by  time,  overgrown  and 
flower-bordered,  exactly  comporting  with  the  long 
horizontals  of  the  pines  and  the  roof  trees  of  the  negro 
cabins.  One  such  fence  I  have  never  forgotten.  Two 
of  us  had  come  out  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  upon  the 
western  side,  or  "the  coast,"  as  it  is  called.  It  had  been 
a  hard  tramp  out,  through  the  damp  heat  of  the  almost 
tropic  swamp  growth,  in  mud  half  up  to  our  knees.  We 
emerged  upon  the  sandy  road  at  sunset  time,  and  a 
cool,  fresh  breeze  was  stirring  from  the  higher  regions  as 
we  turned  south.  To  our  right  was  the  old  rail  fence, 
zigzagging  along  to  keep  us  company,  with  some  un- 
known flower  blooming,  and  as  it  seems  to  me  now 
faintly  fragrant,  in  the  alternate  angles.  Behind  this 
fence  were  the  level  fields,  some  bearing  cotton,  some 
corn,  but  most  of  them  filled  with  row  on  row  of  the 


144    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

humble  peanut.  Now  and  then,  at  the  back  of  the 
fields,  we  saw  a  gray  negro  cabin,  seemingly  as  old  and 
artless,  and  surely  as  virgin  of  paint,  as  the  fence  itself; 
and  always  at  the  far  edge  of  the  fields,  paralleling  our 
road,  marched  a  long  procession  of  southern  pines,  their 
tops  as  level  as  the  sky  line  of  a  Paris  boulevard,  the 
daggers  of  the  pink  sunset  between  their  trunks.  Ever 
the  swamp,  gloomy  and  darkening  with  the  coming 
night,  was  on  our  left,  but  westward  the  old  rail  fence 
accompanied  us,  and  the  friendly  cabins  against  the 
pines;  and  in  the  gathering  twilight  we  heard  from  far 
off  the  sound  of  a  negro  singing. 

The  roadside  wall  or  fence,  too,  besides  its  landscape 
charm  and  friendliness,  is  interesting  as  the  highway  of 
the  lesser  travellers.  Man  is  the  vagabond  of  the 
wheel  ruts;  the  squirrel  takes  the  wall  or  the  topmost 
rail.  The  birds,  too,  in  their  migrations,  like  to  rest 
upon  this  rail,  or  even  to  dwell  near  it  in  preference  to 
the  seemingly  safer  fields  and  woods.  Just  as  you  will 
see  the  telegraph  wires  lined  with  swallows  on  the  ap- 
proaches leading  into  a  city,  you  will  find  innumerable 
birds  along  the  country  track  in  the  trees  and  bushes  or 
even  on  the  wall  or  fence  itself.  They  seem  to  feel  the 
vagabondage  of  the  open  road,  even  though  they  have 
all  the  heavens  for  their  highway. 

Nearly  every  New  Englander's  father  or  grandfather 
(or  so  the  family  legends  run)  once  laid  a  barbed-wire 
fence  on  posts  made  of  willow,  and  hence  the  pollards  by 


The  pattern  of  fields  and  pastures     .     .     .     stitched  with  stone  walls 


STONE  WALLS  145 

the  brook.  It  seems  a  little  incredible  that  so  many 
Yankees  could  have  been  ignorant  of  the  persistence  of 
the  will-to-live  in  willows — or  was  it  their  Puritan  way 
of  serving  beauty  under  the  deception  of  utilitarianism? 
Beauty  they  did  serve,  at  any  rate,  for  the  fence  posts 
always  lived  and  grew  into  a  noble  row  of  trunks,  bi- 
ennially cut  back  to  a  head  an  axe-reach  above  the 
ground,  and  so  always  bristling  with  a  great  cluster  of 
rich,  glossy  leaf  stalks  in  Summer  and  with  tawny,  naked 
spears  in  Winter,  shining  on  a  dull  day  over  the  snow 
and  the  icy  brook  like  a  bit  of  captured  sunlight.  And 
what  whistles  they  made  in  the  Spring!  I  wonder  how 
many  of  my  readers  could  make  a  willow  whistle  now? 
I  believe  the  art  is  lost. 

There  is  one  bit  of  old  stone  wall  I  have  not  yet 
spoken  of,  keeping  it  till  the  last  in  my  memories  of 
walls  and  fences.  It  was  some  two  miles  from  my  boy- 
hood home,  on  the  way  to  a  certain  desirable  swimming 
hole  in  the  Ipswich  River,  and  the  recollection  of  it  is 
still  so  vivid  in  my  brain  that  I  can  call  up  the  exact 
sensations  it  evoked,  though  I  have  not  looked  upon  it 
now  these  twenty  years.  It  could  not,  however,  have 
been  without  its  counterparts  elsewhere,  and  I  have 
often  wondered  if  its  effect  upon  me  in  boyhood  is  not  a 
remembered  possession  of  many  another  New  England 
lad.  Curiously  enough,  in  later  years,  I  found  that 
Ruskin  had  shared  with  me  my  emotions  (the  force  of 
my  original  sensation  is  such  that  I  am  compelled  to  the 


146    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

egotistical  transposition!),  though  Ruskin  did  not 
know  the  stone  wall  in  his  picture,  only  the  dome  of 
pasture. 

The  road  to  the  Ipswich  meadows  led  down  a  slope 
and  across  a  considerable  cultivated  plain,  almost  en- 
tirely rich,  alluvial  grass  land.  It  was  carefully  kept 
and  trimmed  with  a  scythe  behind  the  machine,  to  se- 
cure every  blade  of  grass  close  up  to  the  walls  and  fences. 
There  were  no  hedgerows  here.  On  the  way  down  I 
never  noticed  my  particular  stone  wall,  or,  if  I  did,  it 
was  only  to  wonder  how  it  could  be  so  tame  and  com- 
monplace from  this  viewpoint.  But  after  the  swim, 
lazy  with  too  long  immersion  in  warm  fresh  water,  and 
with  the  hot  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  baking  on  our 
necks  and  sending  up  films  of  heat  from  the  railroad  bed 
which  ran  through  the  bottom  land,  we  would  cross  the 
plain  slowly,  the  hay  cutters  clicking  like  giant  grass- 
hoppers in  the  fields,  and  then  I  would  see  my  wall  and 
feel  its  wonder. 

It  was  a  bare,  gray,  naked  wall,  cresting  the  ridge  of 
the  plain  against  the  sky,  and  the  green  meadows  and 
fields  were  like  a  long  billow  of  the  land  gradually 
swelling  up  into  a  wave  crest,  with  the  gray  wall  as  the 
foam.  At  first  I  thought  of  it  as  a  wonderful  place  to 
shelter  a  defending  regiment,  while  we  boys  were  the 
enemy — Pickett's  men,  perhaps — charging  across  the 
level.  But  the  impress  of  a  great  wave  of  the  land 
gradually  grew  stronger  and  captured  my  whole  im- 


STONE  WALLS  147 

agination,  and  then  suddenly  I  realized  that  the  sea,  the 
great,  blue,  boundless  open  sea,  was  on  the  other  side  of 
that  wall  and  when  I  reached  the  top  I  should  behold  it! 
Just  before  the  road  reached  the  sharp  pitch  of  the  ridge, 
it  swung  abruptly  to  the  right,  to  avoid  a  steep  ascent, 
and  here  the  impression  was  strongest.  The  wall 
stretched  naked  against  the  sky.  Nothing  whatever  was 
visible  beyond  it,  not  even  a  treetop.  The  dome  of  the 
firmament  dropped  down  majestically  behind,  with  in- 
finite depths  of  aerial  perspective  where  the  cloud 
ships  rode,  exactly  as  it  drops  down  to  the  far  horizon 
line  of  the  ocean.  Here,  at  this  point,  I  used  to  pause 
and  tingle  with  the  sensation,  a  feeling  of  the  im- 
manence of  the  sea,  an  illusion  amounting  almost  to  be- 
lief that  when  I  reached  the  top  I  should  indeed  behold 
the  line  where  the  sky  and  water  meet.  I  think  my 
feeling  of  the  sea  at  these  moments  was  a  more  profound 
sensation  than  the  actual  sight  of  the  ocean  ever  awaked. 
I  may  have  been  a  little  ashamed  to  confess  my  sensa- 
tions to  the  boys  who  accompanied  me,  for  I  do  not  re- 
call that  any  of  them  ever  expressed  the  same  illusion. 
It  would  not  have  been  strange,  however,  if  they  could 
not  share  it,  for  none  of  them,  as  I  recall,  was  familiar 
with  the  ocean.  But  in  after  years  I  came  upon  a  pas- 
sage in  Ruskin — in  "Modern  Painters,"  I  think — 
wherein  he  speaks  of  the  strange  illusion  of  the  sea  im- 
parted by  a  level  earth  line  against  the  sky,  shutting 
out  all  sight  of  what  lies  beyond,  and  I  read  his  words 


148    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

with  almost  a  shock  of  familiarity.  He  was  my  fa- 
vourite author  for  several  months  thereafter! 

It  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  that  my 
gray  stone  wall  gave  me  so  profoundly  the  sensation  of 
the  sea,  rising  above  the  inland  meadows  of  Middlesex, 
sharp  against  the  sky.  Yet  the  mystery,  the  lure,  the 
call  to  wonder  and  to  dreams,  which  the  ocean  holds  for 
the  heart  of  youth  were  crystallized  for  me  by  that  stone 
wall  upon  its  ridge,  and  even  to-day  when  I  approach 
the  sea,  f eeling  its  invisible  presence  in  the  great  drop  of 
sky  behind  some  dune  of  sand,  it  is  the  memory  of  my 
wall  which  wakes  and  stirs  within  me,  and  I  hear  the  hot 
cicada  click  of  the  mowing  machines  in  the  fields  and  feel 
once  more  the  strange  pain  of  dreaming  boyhood  when 
the  imagination  has  taken  full  command. 

The  other  day  I  wandered  to  an  upland  pasture 
and  heard  the  mowers  in  a  distant  field.  The  day  was 
hot.  The  grasshoppers  rose  in  a  startled  swarm  about 
my  knees  as  I  walked.  The  sunshine  in  the  valley 
was  like  an  amber  flood  and  the  distant  mountains 
were  smoky  gray,  almost  like  waves  of  floating  vapour. 
I  lay  down  presently  under  the  shade  of  a  laurel  bush, 
to  pick  and  munch  some  checkerberry  leaves  which 
I  saw  growing  there — and  suddenly  from  this  lower 
angle  I  saw  the  near-by  wall  sharp  against  the  sky,  and 
nothing  beyond  save  the  great  spaces  of  aerial  perspec- 
tive and  an  Himalayan  cumulus.  It  was  my  old  stone 
wall,  and  beyond  lay  the  sea!  No,  beyond  lay  the 


STONE  WALLS  149 

Brewer  mowing,  down  the  farther  slope,  where  Jim 
Brewer  was  even  now  at  work;  and  it  would  be  a  good 
time,  incidentally,  to  go  and  ask  him  if  he  could  come 
to-morrow  or  next  day  and  cut  my  rear  lot.  But  I 
did  not  go.  I  lay  in  the  shade  of  the  laurel  bush  and 
looked,  at  the  wall,  and  at  the  great  drop  of  the  sky 
beyond  growing  pearly  pink  with  afternoon,  as  it  does 
out  over  the  waters,  while  the  memories  of  boyhood 
came  back  upon  me  and  the  wonder  of  the  sea,  the 
haunting  call  for  voyages  of  the  untried  soul.  The 
shadow  of  my  laurel  bush  crept  eastward,  the  click 
of  the  mowers  ceased,  a  song-sparrow  sang  his  even- 
song, before  I  rose  from  my  converse  with  a  dream. 
I  did  not  look  over  into  Jim  Brewer's  mowing,  but 
climbed  to  my  feet  with  my  face  to  the  west,  and  the 
last  sight  of  my  wall  was  a  line  of  old  gray  stones  against 
the  pearly  sky. 

"The  sea  is  over  there!"  I  said,  and  walked  home- 
ward through  strange,  familiar  fields. 


BRIDGES 

IS  THERE  any  one  for  whom,  since  his  earliest  child- 
hood, bridges  have  not  had  a  curious,  if  perhaps  almost 
unconscious,  fascination? 

I  stood  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge, 

wrote  Tennyson,  beginning  his  reconstruction  of  the 
tale  of  Coventry's  Queen.  What  were  the  grooms 
and  porters  doing  there?  What  was  the  poet  doing 
there?  We  have  his  word  that  they  were  not  crossing. 
As  the  reporter  for  the  Sun  once  said  of  the  press  agent, 
no  doubt  they  were  busily  standing  still.  What 
place  is  so  inviting  to  stand  busily  still  upon  as  a  bridge? 
The  world  goes  by  you  there  in  open  view.  Beneath 
flows  the  river,  boats  and  bargess  lipping  under  your 
feet  on  its  tide,  and  you  look  upon  the  backs  of  the 
rowers  or  the  piles  of  cargo  on  the  decks  of  the  larger 
craft.  To  left  and  right  you  see  the  city,  perhaps, 
lying  in  perspective  along  the  banks,  hints  of  Whistler 
etchings  in  the  old  river-front  buildings,  and  spires 
shooting  up  behind  them.  Out  of  the  city  comes  a 
street,  to  either  end  of  the  bridge,  and  once  on  the 

150 


BRIDGES  151 

span  it  is  like  an  artery  stripped  of  the  surrounding 
flesh.  You  see  the  blood-flow  of  the  town's  traffic 
with  startling  clearness.  Motors  and  vans,  cabs  and 
wagons,  cars  and  pedestrians,  rumble  behind  you  as 
you  lean  on  the  rail,  and  when  you  turn  to  watch  them 
are  thrown  into  sharp  relief  against  the  river  and  sky — 
perhaps  against  the  foggy  blue-gold  of  the  harbour 
mouth  downstream.  Where  else  but  standing  on  the 
bridge  with  grooms  and  porters  could  Tennyson  have 
seen  Coventry  go  past,  and  dreamed  again  the  ancient 
legend  of  her  Queen?  Where  but  on  Westminster 
Bridge  could  Wordsworth  have  stood,  the  open  sky 
above  him,  the  lapping  water  below,  and  seen  the  sun 
come  up  over  London  and 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie  : 
Open  to  the  fields  and  to  the  sky — ?  . 

Boston,  too,  is  at  her  best  and  most  characteristic 
when  seen  from  the  Cambridge  bridges,  even  that  on 
which  Longfellow  stood  at  midnight  and  pretended  he 
was  a  pessimist.  Westward  from  the  upper  bridge, 
over  the  white  caps  of  the  basin,  the  sun  declines  behind 
Corey  Hill  in  Brookline.  Southward  stretches  the 
broad  highway  of  the  bridge,  alive  with  traffic,  van- 
ishing into  the  brick  wilderness  of  the  town.  South- 
eastward, looking  once  more  across  the  dancing  waters 
of  the  basin,  you  see  the  new  embankment  flashing 
green,  and  beyond  that  the  mile-long  row  of  houses  on 


152    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

Beacon  Street,  curving  gracefully  at  the  lower  end  to 
the  granite  towers  of  the  middle  bridge.  Hidden  be- 
hind this  level  line  of  houses  is  the  smoky  city,  with  tall 
church  towers  rising  at  intervals;  and  far  to  the  left  the 
city  comes  into  view — tier  on  tier  of  red  brick  dwellings 
climbing  up  the  slopes  of  Beacon  Hill  to  the  golden 
dome  of  the  State  House.  Perhaps  an  eight-oared 
shell  comes  downstream  as  you  stand  by  the  rail,  the 
bare,  brown  backs  of  the  rowers  knotting  with  the  play 
of  tense  muscles  underneath  the  tan.  The  sharp  bow 
disappears  beneath  you,  and,  following  the  crowd,  you 
rush  across  the  bridge  to  the  other  side  and  again 
look  down.  Out  from  the  shadow  shoots  the  arrow- 
like  bow,  then  the  knotted  backs  of  the  oarsmen,  their 
eight  long  sweeps  flashing  in  beautiful  rhythmic  swing, 
then  the  little  coxswain  with  a  megaphone  strapped 
to  his  mouth.  It  is  scarcely  a  moment  before  the  shell 
is  far  downstream,  the  sweeps  dripping  silver  on  the 
wind-wrinkled  water.  The  crowd  loiters  on,  its  bit  of 
bridge  excitement  over.  The  harbour  haze  drifts  above 
the  golden  dome  on  Beacon  Hill,  and  the  tiers  of  red 
brick  dwellings  rising  to  it  send  back  the  westering  sun 
from  their  windows.  Few  cities  anywhere  are  more 
beautiful  than  Boston  from  the  upper  Cambridge 
bridge. 

There  is  beauty,  too,  of  a  different  and  stupendous 
kind  in  the  bridges  that  connect  Manhattan  Island  with 
Brooklyn  or  the  mainland.  Your  first  feeling  at  these 


BRIDGES  153 

bridges  is  always  one  of  admiration,  even  of  awe,  for 
modern  engineering.  To  stand  on  the  East  River 
docks  and  see  the  gigantic,  wirespun,  airy  boulevard 
of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  go  leaping  up  into  space  and 
descend  in  a  curve  of  marvellous  grace  into  the  granite 
gorges  of  lower  Manhattan  is  to  experience  a  sensation 
no  other  city  on  earth  can  offer  you.  Even  the  glit- 
tering white  Matterhorn  of  the  Woolworth  Tower, 
toward  which  the  distant  end  of  the  bridge  seems  diving, 
is  less  impressive  than  the  space-hung  boulevard  of 
the  bridge  itself.  It  would  have  been  from  the  foot- 
path of  this  bridge,  too,  that  Wordsworth  would  have 
written  his  sonnet  to  Manhattan — we  wonder  in  what 
spirit  of  solemn  awe  or  bitter  scorn? 

The  appeal  of  bridges  to  man's  imaginative  interest  is 
based,  of  course,  upon  deep  racial  facts.  Bridges,  no 
less  than  ships,  are  a  symbol  of  man's  conquest  of  his 
environment.  They  are  an  escape  from  the  tyranny 
of  Nature.  The  first  bridge,  no  doubt,  was  the  bridge 
the  animals  still  use — a  fallen  tree  across  a  little  stream. 
The  next  step  was  to  fell  a  tree  when  a  bridge  was 
needed,  the  next  to  provide  supports  for  it,  the  next  to 
extend  the  length  of  span  by  mid-stream  structures. 
Every  step  on  the  way  meant  a  rise  in  the  scale  of  civili- 
zation, and  the  simplest  bit  of  plank  across  a  brook, 
where  the  path  winds  down  through  the  trees,  has  for 
us  the  curious  interest  of  primitive  things,  taking  us 
back  many  ages  in  our  history. 


154    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

i 
Bridges,  too,  have  always  been  a  strategic  point  in 

times  of  war — bottle  necks  for  defence;  and  our  con- 
sciousness carries  the  memory  of  this  fact.  We  have 
all  fought  with  Horatius  by  the  yellow  Tiber,  upon 
the  farther  side,  while  Roman  axes  hewed  down  the 
timbers  behind  us!  We  have  all  been  proud,  who 
could,  that  some  ancestor  of  ours  fired  one  of  those 
shots  heard,  round  the  world,  "by  the  rude  bridge  that 
spanned  the  flood"  of  the  Concord  River  (the  flood 
being,  to  be  sure,  a  small,  dark,  sluggish,  quiet  stream 
meandering  through  peaceful  meadows).  But  the  rude 
span  which  crossed  it  was  unquestionably  a  bridge,  and 
the  stream  too  wide  to  jump,  so  the  point  was  strategic, 
and  on  one  side  stood  the  redcoats,  on  the  other  the 
embattled  farmers  of  Middlesex,  and  the  rifles  spoke 
which  made  a  nation  free.  All  boys  have  fought  beside 
Napoleon,  and  know  the  bridge  of  Lodi.  All  boys, 
living  in  the  tales  of  battles  (which  to  them  are  history), 
know  a  hundred  bridges,  great  and  small,  where  an 
advance  was  checked  or  a  rear  guard  successfully  cov- 
ered a  retreat;  and  every  boy  sees  the  reason  for  this 
strategic  importance  of  bridges  and  looks  upon  them 
with  interest  and  respect. 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  bridge  Caesar  built  across  the 
Rhine — which  wakes,  perhaps,  less  pleasant  memories. 
Nor  must  London  Bridge  be  forgotten,  which  in  our 
early  childhood  was  in  constant  process  of  falling  down, 
to  a  tune  we  shall  never  forget.  The  mammoth  im- 


BRIDGES  155 

portance  of  such  a  catastrophe  as  the  destruction  of 
London  Bridge  can  in  no  way  be  more  justly  esti- 
mated than  by  the  persistence  through  the  generations 
of  this  song-game. 

It  is  curious  how  characteristic  bridges  are  of  the 
region  or  the  civilization  which  produced  them.  What 
could  be  more  characteristic  of  the  Titanic  materialism 
of  New  York  than  the  high-leaping  boulevards  of 
steel  which  span  the  East  River?  They  are  the  bridges 
which  befit  Manhattan  no  less  than  the  corduroy,  laid 
on  two  string  pieces  formed  by  felling  hemlocks  across 
the  rushing  mountain  stream,  befits  the  logging  road 
which  winds  into  the  forests  under  Carrigain.  The 
bridges  of  Florence,  too — the  Ponte  Vecchio,  let  us  say 
— are  composed  of  exquisite  ancient  arches  of  hewn 
stone,  in  perfect  proportion,  leading  into  squares  where 
stone  architecture  in  exquisite  proportion  speaks  of  the 
marvellous  Renaissance.  They  are  not  vast,  these 
bridges.  They  do  not  leap.  They  are  gravelly  monu- 
mental, however,  on  the  scale  of  the  city,  built  by 
artists,  to  endure.  As  exactly  fitted  to  their  age  and 
station  were  the  old  covered  bridges  of  New  England 
—nay,  are,  for  many  a  one  still  stands  across  the  Con- 
necticut or  the  Androscoggin,  witness  to  the  enduring 
qualities  of  native  oak;  we  cannot  say  a  mute  witness, 
because  there  was  never  yet  a  New  England  covered 
bridge  in  which  the  planking  did  not  rattle. 

The  road  that  winds  down  the  hills  to  the  covered 


156    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

bridge,  or  crosses  the  green  fields  of  the  intervale,  is 
white  with  dust  and  lined  with  bramble-covered  stone 
walls  and  elm  trees  or  maples.  Always,  as  it  draws 
near,  it  runs  up  a  little  incline  to  the  bridge  (perhaps 
just  after  you  have  paid  your  toll  at  the  toll  gate); 
and  warned  by  a  large  sign  over  the  entrance  you  pull 
your  horses  down  to  a  walk  or  reduce  the  speed  of  your 
motor.  You  pass  at  once  out  of  the  hot  sunshine  into 
the  dusty  dimness  of  the  long,  telescope-like  shed,  and 
the  planks  rumble  beneath  your  wheels.  What  a 
curious  smell  there  is  in  the  old  covered  bridge!  It  is 
like  no  other  smell  in  the  world,  and  quite  indescribable 
to  one  who  has  never  sniffed  it — not  the  smell  of  a  coun- 
try barn,  nor  of  a  circus  ring,  yet  reminiscent  of  both, 
with  a  new  quality  entirely  its  own.  It  always  brings 
back  my  childhood  to  me  with  a  sudden,  startling 
vividness,  and  I  recall  the  covered  bridge  across  the 
Androscoggin  at  Bethel,  with  ancient  circus  posters 
flaring  from  the  dusty  walls,  with  tin  placards  on  every 
beam  proclaiming  some  magic  spavin  cure,  with  bits  of 
hay  hanging  from  the  cobwebs,  pulled  from  a  tower- 
ing load  recently  passed  through,  and  finally  with 
exquisite  landscapes  of  the  great  curve  of  the  river,  the 
green  fields,  and  the  far  blue  peaks  of  the  Presidentials, 
framed  through  the  square  windows — for  every  cov- 
ered bridge  is  lighted  by  square  windows  at  orthodox 
intervals.  The  road  on  either  side  of  that  bridge  is 
as  vague  in  my  memory  as  yesterday's  breakfast;  but 


BRIDGES  157 

the  entrance — a  shadowy  cave  where  dust  motes  danced 
in  the  rays  which  streamed  from  cracks  between  the 
boarding — and  every  detail  of  the  interior,  including  the 
smell,  are  so  clear  and  vivid  that  I  have  only  to  shut  my 
eyes  and  be  five  years  old  again. 

The  old  New  England  covered  bridge  (covered,  of 
course,  to  protect  the  traffic  from  the  winter  blasts  dur- 
ing the  long  crossing)  had  the  box-like  simplicity  of  the 
New  England  farmhouse  and  barn.  It  was  made  of 
wood,  on  stone  piers,  exactly  as  the  barns  and  houses 
were.  It  was  invariably  painted  red,  or  else  left  to 
weather  a  soft  mouse-gray.  It  could  never  have  been  a 
seemly  approach  to  a  city,  yet  in  its  setting  of  country 
road  and  pasture,  with  the  wide,  clear,  brown  river 
beneath  it  and  the  simple,  box-like  red  or  gray  barns  on 
the  distant  hills,  it  not  only  admirably  filled  its  function 
of  getting  the  farmer  across  the  wide  stream  with  ears 
unfrozen  in  the  bitterest  storms,  but,  Winter  or  Summer, 
it  fitted  the  landscape.  What  should  theoretically  have 
been  angular  and  clumsy  toned  into  the  scheme  with  a 
quaint,  stiff  grace,  and  threw  its  red  reflection  into  the 
water.  Wherever  such  a  bridge  still  stands,  connecting 
communities  which  retain  the  simplicity  of  the  old 
New  England,  it  is  a  picturesque  delight.  Wherever 
such  a  bridge  is  reached  by  a  tarvia  road,  perhaps  with 
a  steel  trolley  span  beside  it  and  modern  houses  on  either 
bank,  it  is  almost  pathetically  ugly,  and,  I  have  dis- 
covered, does  not  even  retain  its  characteristic  smell. 


158    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

The  old  covered  bridge  belonged  to  a  New  England  that 
is  too  rapidly  vanishing — to  the  age  of  the  travelling 
circus  and  the  carry-all  and  first-growth  timber  and 
"old-fashioned  snowstorms."  A  motor  looks  as  out  of 
place  in  one  as  the  one-hoss  shay  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

We  all,  I  suppose,  have  cur  favourite  and  familiar 
little  bridges — memories  of  childhood,  summer  pos- 
sessions, or,  perhaps,  enjoyed  the  year  through.  There 
used  to  be  a  bridge  on  the  way  to  my  grandfather's 
house  which  always  filled  me  with  joy,  because  upon  it  I 
caught  the  first  sight  of  the  stream  which  was  to  give  me 
a  month  of  unalloyed  delight — a  pretty  glimpse,  with  a 
curve  of  the  river  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  the  dark, 
glossy  millpond,  green  with  lily  pads,  and  the  gray  mill 
with  its  gigantic  pile  of  fragrant  sawdust  beyond.  This 
little  bridge  was  of  a  well-recognized  type — wooden 
string  pieces  set  from  stone  piers  built  out  on  either 
bank,  with  a  rough  and  picturesque  railing  of  poles 
upon  which  you  leaned  to  look  down  into  the  water,  or 
to  fish.  The  loose  planking  rattled,  and  I  remember 
vividly  the  delightful  sensation  of  rowing  under  the 
bridge  into  the  shadow,  on  a  hot  summer  day,  and 
waiting  there  till  a  team  passed  overhead,  to  see  the  dust 
sift  down  through  the  chinks,  golden,  perhaps,  in  a  ray 
of  sunlight,  and  to  hear  its  soft,  almost  bell-like  tinkle 
on  the  water.  The  fact  that  the  people  in  the  team 
overhead  didn't  know  we  were  under  the  bridge  lent  an 
added  zest  to  the  adventure. 


BRIDGES  159 

There  are  many  such  wooden  bridges  still  left  on  back 
roads  where  motor  traffic  has  not  necessitated  a  change. 
Often  they  are  as  picturesque,  almost,  as  a  consciously 
designed  bridge  in  Japan,  with  an  artless  grace  in  the 
rough,  semicircular  arch  occasionally  constructed  with 
the  pole  railing,  or  the  angular  curve  of  the  base  line 
over  a  mid-stream  prop.  If  you  go  down  to  the  river 
level  in  winter,  when  the  banks  are  white  with  snow, 
and  only  in  the  centre  of  the  current  is  there  any  water 
visible,  when  the  bare  trees  are  sharp  and  delicate 
against  the  sky  and  the  road  but  three  tracks  of  blue 
shadow,  you  will  see  the  bridge  etched  in  timber  on  a 
field  of  white,  with  naive,  unconscious  picturesqueness, 
almost  as  much  a  part  of  nature  as  the  nude  maples 
beyond. 

On  the  farther  side  of  Grandfather's  house  was  a 
second  bridge,  crossing  the  same  river — which  me- 
andered in  great  loops  through  the  meadows,  going  a 
mile  while  the  road  went  three  hundred  yards.  This 
was  called  the  Red  Bridge.  It  was  much  more  pre- 
tentious, but  far  less  attractive  to  the  eye,  than  the 
first  one.  The  sides,  instead  of  being  open  railing,  were 
composed  of  double  solid  board  fences,  two  feet  apart, 
and  boxed  in  along  the  top.  Unless  you  were  a  very 
tall  man,  you  could  not  look  over  them,  so  that  when 
you  stood  on  this  bridge  you  didn't  see  the  river  at  all. 
But  you  could  climb  up  on  them!  On  top  was  a  two- 
foot-wide,  perilous  path,  with  a  sheer  drop  of  twenty 


160    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

feet  to  the  river  on  one  side,  and  your  mother's  express 
command  never  to  walk  across  spurring  you  on,  not  to 
mention  the  admiring  gaze  of  your  small  companion. 
The  Red  Bridge,  too  (which  must  have  been  painted 
about  once  every  generation),  was  a  superb  place  for 
bill-posting.  It  fairly  blazed  with  spavin  cures,  lini- 
ments for  man  and  beast,  bargains  in  farm  machinery, 
announcements  of  county  fairs,  and  circus  posters. 
How  well  I  remember  one  fair  trapeze  performer  who 
was  depicted  in  the  act  of  flying  through  the  air,  hands 
gracefully  outstretched  toward  a  far-distant,  swinging 
perch,  and  whose  pink  legs  defied  the  winter  storms  and 
summer  suns  long  after  the  rest  of  her  anatomy  had 
faded  quite  from  view — which  was  not  without  its 
ironic  touch  in  our  Puritan  community ! 

A  quaint  feature  of  country  bridges  that  is  now  dis- 
appearing was  the  turnout  on  the  roadway  beside  them, 
when  the  stream  was  a  small  one,  permitting  you  to 
drive  your  horse  through  the  ford  and  up  the  opposite 
bank  to  the  road  again,  thus  watering  him  without  get- 
ting out  of  the  carriage.  It  was  bad,  undoubtedly,  for 
the  carriage  wheels,  but  the  horses  certainly  enjoyed  it, 
and  many  a  time  have  I  left  my  fishpole  propped  against 
the  rail,  with  the  float  bobbing  far  downstream,  to  cross 
the  bridge  and  watch  some  thirsty  horse  suck  up  the 
water  noisily,  while  the  foam  drifted  away  from  his 
nostrils  and  his  driver  let  the  reins  dangle  and  inquired 
of  me  (usually  with  annoying  derisiveness):  "Heow air 


Fitted  to  their  age  and  station  were  the  covered  bridges 
of  New  England 


BRIDGES  161 

they  bitin'  ter-day,  son?"  Those  drinking  pools  were 
excellent  places  to  wade  in,  too,  on  your  way  home  from 
berry  picking,  when  there  didn't  happen  to  be  a  real 
swimming  hole  on  the  lower  side  of  the  bridge.  I  don't 
know  why  our  swimming  holes  were  always  by  a  bridge, 
but  they  invariably  were,  perhaps  because  a  stream  is 
apt  to  be  narrowest  just  before  it  widens  into  a  pool. 
At  any  rate,  we  were  always  forced  to  expose  our  naked- 
ness just  below  the  roadway  where  it  crossed  on  the 
rattling  timbers,  and  it  was  the  part  of  honour  and  de- 
cency to  go  under  water  when  a  carry-all  passed,  and  to 
stay  under  if  there  were  ladies  in  it  until  the  rumble  of 
the^  boards  had  ceased.  Many  a  boy  learned  to  dive  by 
being  caught  on  the  left  bank,  where  there  were  no  trees 
or  bushes,  a  sudden  clatter  of  hoofs  or  the  sound  of 
women's  voices  warning  him  that  he  must  leap. 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  little  roads  are  the 
lanes  on  a  farm  which  radiate  out  from  the  barn  into  the 
hayfields,  the  orchard,  the  sugar  grove,  the  timber;  and 
among  the  most  interesting  of  little  bridges  are  those  on 
which  these  lanes  and  farm  paths  cross  the  brooks. 
Such  bridges  are  of  the  simplest  construction,  often  but 
a  few  planks  laid  on  a  couple  of  beams,  without  any 
railing,  to  enable  the  hayracks  to  cross  the  brook,  which 
here  is  almost  hidden  deep  down  in  the  long  grass  and 
flows  lazily  toward  the  river  as  if  resting  after  its  tumble 
from  the  hills.  But  the  view  from  such  a  little  bridge  is 
always  charming.  On  either  side  the  winding  of  the 


162    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

brook  is  visible,  a  snake-like  indentation  in  the  green  of 
the  meadow.  The  cart  tracks  of  the  hay  road  lead  back 
from  the  bridge  to  the  great  barn,  and  forward  into  the 
sunny  reaches  of  the  fields,  or  even  farther  into  the  tim- 
ber. The  verdant  intervale  is  ringed  with  hills,  near  and 
wooded,  far  off  and  blue.  The  grasshoppers  leap 
in  a  tiny  cloud  about  your  feet  as  you  walk,  the  crick- 
ets chirrup,  and  the  bobolinks  and  larks  are  busy  in  the 
air.  Perhaps  from  the  distance  comes  the  steady 
click,  click,  click  of  a  mowing  machine,  hottest  of  summer 
sounds.  For  many  years  when  I  was  pent  in  a  city  ten 
months  of  the  year,  just  such  a  bridge  was  always  in 
my  dreams,  a  bridge  that  lets  the  sugar  grove  brook  pass 
under  on  its  way  to  the  brown  Ham  Branch  and  invites 
your  eye  to  wander  up  the  valley  to  the  blue  nobility  of 
Moosilauke,  most  beautiful  of  mountains. 

Scarcely  less  to  be  desired  is  the  little  foot-bridge 
which  crosses  the  brook  farther  up,  where  it  still  tum- 
bles and  talks  amid  the  trees.  The  path  is  a  way  of 
dead  leaves  and  dark  mould  and  wild  flowers,  cloistered 
amid  great  tree  trunks.  But  from  the  tiny  bridge  a 
vista  suddenly  opens.  The  brook  has  cleared  a  sight- 
line  down  the  slope  through  the  forest,  and  you  glimpse 
unexpectedly  the  green  meadows  out  there  in  the  sun, 
turning  from  emerald  to  gold  as  the  sun  sets,  and  the 
songs  of  the  hermit  thrushes  throb  in  the  cool  dimness 
about  you. 

Less  artless  and  simple  than  the  little  bridges  of 


BRIDGES  163 

the  farm,  but  scarcely  less  peaceful  and  with  a  calm 
beauty  all  their  own,  are  the  little  bridges  which  cross 
canals.  Nothing  is  so  soothing  and  sedative  as  a 
canal,  with  its  endless  levels,  its  winding  tow  path, 
its  brimming,  quiet  water.  A  canal  always  seems  old, 
and  always  lazy.  It  takes  the  reflection  of  every 
bridge  as  in  a  mirror,  whether  the  white-washed  bridge 
near  Princeton,  where  the  lock-keeper's  house,  white- 
washed, too,  is  gay  with  red  geraniums,  and  the  lazy 
barges  are  few  and  far  between,  or  some  more  ancient 
stone  arch  in  England,  formal  like  the  countryside, 
completed  by  the  reflection  into  a  perfect  circle  save 
where  the  tow  path  cuts  into  the  circumference.  Some- 
times there  is  hurry  on  the  bridges;  a  motor  whizzes 
across,  or  a  galloping  horse  clatters.  How  foolish 
such  haste  seems  from  the  level  of  the  canal!  Your 
canoe  drifts  to  the  gentle  impulse  of  your  paddle,  and 
as  you  pass  under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge  the  life  of 
roads,  leading  into  distant  towns,  into  rush  and  tur- 
moil, seems  oddly  far  off  and  unreal.  The  bridge  is  a 
reminder  of  things  you  had  forgotten. 

The  modern  steel  bridge  has  not  yet  found  itself. 
It  is  useful  enough,  but  too  seldom  beautiful.  The  steel 
building  is  clothed  in  stone,  but  the  bridge  goes  naked, 
with  unlovely  skeleton.  The  Brooklyn  Bridge,  with 
its  stone  suspension  towers,  and  the  new  Charles  Street 
bridge  between  Cambridge  and  Boston,  where  the  steel 
is  so  fleshed  with  granite  that  the  skeleton  seems  solid, 


164    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

show  clearly  enough  the  importance  of  apparent  solid- 
ity in  the  aesthetic  appeal  of  bridges — unless  the  steel 
framework  can  find  some  new,  airy  grace  of  its  own. 
Occasionally  we  meet  with  a  small  steel  bridge,  not 
designed  for  bearing  heavy  traffic,  which  does  achieve  a 
pleasant  effect  of  strength  in  lightness;  and  of  course  the 
high  railroad  trestle,  with  its  tall,  lean  piers  and  its 
bare,  level  top,  has  a  quaint,  spider-like  grace  as  it 
strides  the  chasm  and  the  foaming  mountain  torrent, 
bearing  the  train  far  aloft  against  the  face  of  the  cliffs 
upon  its  airy  slenderness.  The  suspension  type  of 
bridge  is  not  a  new  one.  The  similarity  between 
one  of  those  "home-made"  suspension  bridges  for 
foot  passengers,  so  common  on  our  American  rivers, 
which  consists  of  a  plank  walk  hung  between  two 
cables  stretched  from  trees  on  either  bank,  and  the 
pictures  of  native  rope  bridges  in  the  Andes,  is  strik- 
ing. Our  little  suspension  bridge  across  the  Housa- 
tonic,  which  sways  so  deliciously  when  we  cross  upon 
it,  and  so  terrifies  the  dog,  is,  after  all,  but  a  pocket 
edition  of  the  boulevards  that  leap  the  East  River  out 
of  the  flanks  of  Manhattan.  But  the  cantilever 
bridges  of  steel  are  something  new  as  well  as  angular, 
and  grace  is  not  yet  their  attribute,  nor  monumental 
solidity,  either.  Unlike  the  builders  of  the  Renais- 
sance, our  engineers  are  not  yet  artists.  But  this  does 
not  mean  that  we  must  hark  wailfully  back  to  Ruskin 
for  an  expression  of  our  feelings.  Why  should  we 


BRIDGES  165 

have  so  much  confidence  in  the  past,  and  none  in  the 
future? 

Pater,  in  his  famous  "Conclusion"  (once,  strange  as 
it  seems,  infamous,  rather),  says, 

Experience,  already  reduced  to  a  swarm  of  impressions,  is 
ringed  round  for  each  one  of  us  by  that  thick  wall  of  per- 
sonality through  which  no  real  voice  has  ever  pierced  on  its 
way  to  us,  or  from  us  to  that  which  we  can  only  conjecture  to 
be  without.  Every  one  of  those  impressions  is  the  impression 
of  the  individual  in  his  isolation,  each  mind  keeping  as  a  soli- 
tary prisoner  its  own  dream  of  a  world. 

Is  there  not,  perhaps,  a  little  of  this  melancholy  meta- 
physic  hi  our  contemplation  of  bridges?  Some  read- 
ers will  undoubtedly  recall  William  Morris's  tale, 
"The  Sundering  Flood,"  with  its  yearning  figure  on 
either  bank  of  the  uncrossed  stream — young,  hot 
hearts  aflame.  We  think  of  them,  perhaps,  when  we 
come  to  a  river  bank  and  see  upon  the  farther  shore 
green  fields  and  cool  woods,  with  white  roads  lead- 
ing "over  the  hills  and  far  away"  into  a  land  of  untried 
delights — but  no  bridge  crossing  thither.  Standing 
balked  upon  the  bank  of  the  "sundering  flood,"  we 
realize  afresh  what  a  part  bridges  have  played  in  the 
happiness  and  progress  of  individuals  and  the  race; 
we  realize  it  from  that  primitive  viewpoint  of  unsat- 
isfied need,  which  is  still  humanity's  greatest  teacher. 

But  suppose  a  bridge  is  there;  suppose  it  leads  out 
over  the  swirling  current,  and  shows  us  water  vistas 


166    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

as  we  pause  at  mid-stream  to  look  left  and  right  before 
we  pass  on  into  the  pleasant  adventures  that  await. 
Shall  we  not  anticipate  those  adventures  with  a  cer- 
tain gravity,  wondering  whether,  after  all,  the  bridge 
which  takes  us  into  realms  unexplored  can  ever  take  us 
out  of  ourselves,  can  lead  us  to  sights  which  are  not 
already  irrevocably  conditioned  by  our  personal  vision, 
can  ever  span  the  gulf  between  that  self  which  alone  we 
may  ever  hope  to  know,  and  that  not-our-self  which 
is  all  the  world  else?  The  reflection  is  melancholy, 
and  it  would  not  do  to  dwell  too  long  upon  it,  or  else 
the  tramp-adventurer  no  less  than  Hamlet  would 
find  his  conscience  "sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of 
thought"  till  it  lost  the  name  of  action.  Yet  for  a 
moment,  however  brief,  it  can  hardly  be  escaped. 
The  road  winds  down  the  pleasant  hills  to  the  bridge, 
and  for  a  span  it  is  isolated  and  alone  as  it  crosses  the 
brown  water  to  the  unknown  hills  beyond,  with  vil- 
lages in  their  green  folds  and  vistas  through  their 
intervales.  On  that  isolated  span  the  individual  is 
alone,  as  well.  The  whence  and  whither  of  his  life 
flashes  its  questioning  beam  upon  him,  perhaps  the 
primal  allegory  of  the  running  river  beneath  his  feet 
murmurs  sadly  in  the  sound  of  the  waters,  and  even  his 
companion  seems  suddenly  strange — he  is  conscious 
of  the  sundering  flood  that  rolls  forever  between  per- 
sonalities. 

But  a  hay  cart  rattles  on  the  planking,  the  smell  of  the 


BRIDGES  167 

hay  mingles  with  the  faint  odour  of  fresh  running 
water,  the  farmer  has  a  cheery  hail,  a  swallow  skims  the 
river,  and  the  sky  is  blue!  Once  more  the  tramp- 
adventurer  sets  his  feet  toward  the  unknown  land 
beyond  the  bridge,  and  lights  his  pipe  afresh. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL 

IT  WAS  many  years  ago  that  I  first  alighted  from 
the  train  at  a  station  bearing  the  Biblical  name  of 
Zoar,  and,  after  the  train  had  disappeared  up  the 
winding  track,  felt  my  tortured  ears  suddenly  soothed 
with  the  sweet  silence,  my  lungs  with  the  keen  air. 
Just  below  the  track  the  rapid  brown  Deerfield  River 
ran  whispering  over  stones.  Opposite  the  tiny  station, 
across  the  highway,  were  two  or  three  houses.  Be- 
hind them  leapt  up  the  wooded  walls  of  the  gorge, 
reproduced  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  Looking 
up  stream  or  down,  I  could  see  great  wooded  headlands 
jutting  out — a  wild  and  picturesque  canon.  After  the 
dust  and  smell  of  the  train,  the  faint  odour  of  the  rapid 
water  was  cool  and  agreeable.  I  drew  a  deep  breath 
before  turning  to  find  the  stage  driver  who  would  take 
me  from  Zoar  up  the  walls  of  the  gorge  to  the  little 
village  on  the  hills  above. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  find  hjm,  as  he  was  the  only 
person  on  the  platform  besides  myself  and  the  station 
agent.  Conversely,  I  was  his  only  passenger.  In 
addition  to  me  and  my  luggage  his  load  consisted  of 

168 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         169 

a  mail  bag,  four  sacks  of  feed,  and  a  bundle  of  morning 
newspapers.  He  belonged  to  the  old-fashioned  com- 
municative school  of  Yankee  stage  drivers,  and  before 
we  had  accomplished  the  six  uphill  miles  to  the  vil- 
lage (he  said  it  was  eight  up  and  four  down,  but  aver- 
aged six,  so  they  marked  it  six  on  the  maps),  I  was  in 
possession  of  a  considerable  body  of  local  history,  New 
England  folk-lore,  and  highly  flavoured,  individual 
philosophy.  Alas!  in  those  days  I  kept  no  note  book, 
(nor  do  I  now,  except  spasmodically!),  and  this  par- 
ticular stage  driver  has  long  since  carried  his  last  mail, 
so  I  cannot  return  to  atone  for  my  omission.  But  it 
was  from  his  lips,  I  remember,  that  I  first  heard  the 
story  of  the  old  woman  who  read  in  her  Bible  that  faith 
would  remove  mountains.  As  a  particular  mountain 
behind  her  house  annoyed  her  by  shutting  off  the  late 
afternoon  sun  (he  showed  me  the  identical  hill),  she 
decided  to  exercise  her  faith  and  will  it  to  be  gone, 
which  she  accordingly  did  just  as  it  was  spoiling  what 
promised  to  be  a  particularly  choice  sunset.  How- 
ever, she  gave  it  all  night  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  in 
the  morning  ran  expectantly  to  the  window.  It  was 
still  there. 

"Well,  I  knew  it  would  be!"  she  said. 

The  road  we  were  plodding  up  the  hill  led  beside  a 
dashing,  fern-embroidered  and  hemlock-shaded  brook, 
which  had  been  the  primal  engineer  without  whose 
aid  no  road  could  have  been  built.  It  was  a  beautiful 


170    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

brook,  full  of  waterfalls,  and  every  fall,  I  am  sure,  was 
duplicated  by  a  thank-you-marm  in  the  road.  There 
would  be  a  short,  steep  ascent,  then  a  high  thank-you- 
marm  at  the  top,  a  stretch  less  steep,  then  another 
sharp  upgrade  and  another  thank-you-marm.  It  was 
as  if  the  winding  road  was  cascading  down  the  moun- 
tain gorge.  The  horses  knew  exactly  how  to  pull  the 
rear  wheels  over  one  of  these  thank-you-marms  and  let 
them  settle  into  the  little  hollow  above,  which  held  the 
wagon  stationary  while  the  horses  caught  their  breath. 

"Hosses  has  got  a  lot  o'  sense,"  the  driver  said  on  one 
such  occasion.  "They  don't  tire  themselves  out  ef  you 
don't  push  'em.  They  take  things  natural.  A  man 
don't.  He  don't  let  up  till  all  the  steam's  out  o'  the 
boiler." 

Driving  on  this  theory,  he  was  a  long  time  getting  to 
the  upland,  but  I  still  recall  the  pleasures  of  that  ride, 
the  rushing,  ferny  brook,  the  solemn  hemlocks,  the  steep 
mountain  walls,  the  smell  of  woods  and  wild  flowers  and 
brown  water  on  the  run.  We  came  at  last  into  a  small 
upland  intervale,  where  there  was  a  cleared  field  and  a 
house,  and  then,  passing  them  and  climbing  another 
slope,  into  a  larger  intervale,  with  more  fields  and 
several  houses.  But  there  was  still  a  hill  ahead  of  us, 
and  mountain  walls  on  either  side,  and  we  must  have 
ascended  two  hundred  feet  more  before  we  reached  the 
lower  end  of  the  village. 

This,  my  driver  told  me,  was  the  "new"  village, 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         171 

though  it  looked  old  enough  to  have  been  there  always. 
On  one  side  of  the  road  the  brook  had  been  dammed 
into  a  little  mill  pond,  full  of  lily  pads,  and  between 
the  dam  and  the  highway  stood  the  sawmill,  a  rough 
lean-to  of  weathered,  mouse-gray  boards,  the  big  saw 
singing  its  last  snarling  song  for  the  day  as  we  passed 
by,  the  smell  of  fresh-cut  pine  flooding  the  surrounding 
air.  Just  beyond  the  mill  was  the  town  hall,  a  small 
building  about  the  size  of  the  traditional  "little  red 
school  house,"  and  neatly  painted  white.  Beyond  that 
was  a  neat  white  church,  of  about  the  same  size.  Then 
came  a  house  or  two.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
were  other  houses,  and  the  general  store  and  post 
office,  where  we  left  the  mail,  the  papers,  and  the  bags 
of  feed.  It  was  an  ancient  story-and-a-half  building, 
with  a  front  veranda  supported  by  columns.  The  hitch- 
ing posts  in  front  were  chewed  into  fantastic  totem 
poles  by  hungry  horses.  Around  each  white  column 
on  the  veranda,  shoulder-high,  was  a  darker  ring  where 
the  village  had  leaned,  waiting  for  the  mail.  On  the 
floor  of  the  veranda,  flanking  the  door,  stood  ploughs 
and  rakes  and  other  agricultural  implements.  Inside 
were  the  usual  curiously  scented  gloom,  the  ancient 
collection  of  groceries,  calico,  thread,  overalls,  straw 
hats,  tobacco,  axe  handles,  saws,  kerosene,  and  the  in- 
evitable bunch  of  bananas.  Since  those  days,  a  black 
tin  rack  of  souvenir  post  cards  has  been  added,  but 
otherwise  there  has  been  but  little  change. 


172    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

Yet  even  here  we  were  not  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  We 
were  on  a  plateau,  to  be  sure,  and  a  road  branched  to  the 
west,  just  beyond  the  store,  and  another,  above  the  mill 
pond,  turned  to  the  east.  But  both  roads  led  to  farms 
which  could  be  seen  pushing  their  cleared  pastures 
up  toward  higher  wooded  summits,  and  ahead  the  main 
road  still  climbed  toward  the  "old"  village.  With  a 
lighter  load,  we  continued  our  journey,  coming,  after 
nearly  half  a  mile,  almost  to  the  top  of  the  world,  and 
finding  to  my  amazement  the  weed-grown  remnants  of  a 
village  green,  with  two  fine  old  Colonial  houses  facing 
it,  houses  with  delicate  fanlights  over  the  doors  and 
graceful  Greek  borders  under  the  eaves,  and  on  one  side 
a  dilapidated  building  which  had  been  the  town  hall  a 
century  ago — a  building  three  times  the  size  of  the 
present  hall;  on  the  other,  a  white  meeting  house 
similarly  dilapidated  and  similarly  superior  in  size  to  the 
new.  Here  the  road  divided,  one  branch  going  on 
through  the  upland  pastures,  still  climbing  steadily  till 
it  crested  the  two-thousand-foot  divide  between  Massa- 
chusetts and  Vermont,  the  other  keeping  to  the  sixteen- 
hundred-foot  level  and  making  for  the  hills  of  North 
Heath  to  the  east.  It  was  toward  one  of  those  hills  the 
stage  driver  pointed,  and  delivered  his  final  observation. 

"There's  a  cemetery  over  yonder  on  that  hill,"  he 
remarked,  "which  they  say  is  the  highest  p'int  o'  culti- 
vated ground  in  Massachusetts." 

I  came  to  know  this  village  well  in  the  days  that  fol- 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         173 

lowed — to  know,  and  to  love,  and  to  wonder  at  it. 
Settled  j  in  the  eighteenth  century  by  adventurous 
pioneers  who  pushed  on  up  into  the  hills  from  Deerfield, 
it  must  always  have  been  remote,  inaccessible,  drift- 
piled  in  winter,  with  a  thin,  rocky  soil.  Nor,  without 
artillery  on  either  side,  is  it  easy  to  see  why  such  a 
hilltop  village  was  much  easier  to  defend  from  a  surprise 
attack  by  the  Indians  than  a  village  amid  rich  valley 
meadows.  The  hills  were  too  broken,  the  forests  too 
numerous,  to  afford  an  unobstructed  view  for  any 
distance.  It  may  be  that  the  Indians  themselves 
avoided  the  hills — there  is  considerable  testimony  to 
that  effect,  especially  in  the  White  Mountains.  It  may 
also  be  that  the  prevalence  of  "summer  fever"  in 
Colonial  times  (which,  of  course,  was  typhoid  fever  from 
contaminated  wells)  caused  our  ancestors  to  seek  the 
hills,  where  they  drank  spring  water  and  attributed  their 
health  to  the  absence  of  "poisonous  vapours"  from  the 
lowlands.  Then,  too,  in  many  cases  it  was  easier  to 
maintain  trails  over  the  uplands  than  in  the  valleys. 
But  still  more,  I  like  to  fancy,  it  was  the  pioneer  urge 
that  brought  the  first  settlers  up  the  river  gorges,  and 
then  up  the  side  gorges  of  the  tributary  brooks,  till 
some  upland  beaver  meadow  attracted  their  attention, 
offering  a  ready-made  clearing  to  start  on,  with  superb 
timber  all  about  and  unlimited  water  power  for  their 
needs.  These  early  pioneers  lived  a  self-sufficient  life, 
and  perhaps  when  you  are  entirely  independent  of  the 


174    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

outside  world,  the  human  instinct  is  to  get  upon  a  hill. 
How  else,  at  any  rate,  can  we  explain  so  many  of  our 
New  England  hamlets  which  were  founded  and  flour- 
ished more  than  a  century  ago,  and  with  the  growth  of 
modern  transportation  and  industrialism  have  grad- 
ually been  slipping  down  to  the  valleys,  or  dying  of 
dry  rot,  yielding  up  their  hard-won  fields  to  the  read- 
vancing  waves  of  the  forest? 

In  this  hill  town  where  the  stage  driver  brought  me 
there  was  a  notable  fire  in  1795,  or  thereabouts.  It 
burned  the  church  to  the  ground,  and  with  the  church  it 
destroyed  the  Covenant.  The  minister  at  that  time 
was  the  Reverend  Preserved  Smith,  a  man  of  liberal 
mind  and  warm  heart,  who  at  once  set  about  rebuilding 
his  sheepfold.  But  he  did  not  attempt  to  restore  the 
Covenant.  It  is  said  that  neither  he  nor  his  congrega- 
tion could  recall  definitely  all  its  Calvinistic  ramifica- 
tions, and  quite  evidently  they  were  not  desirous  of 
sending  away  to  the  orthodox  lowlands  for  aid.  There- 
fore the  new  church  had  no  Covenant,  and  for  a  genera- 
tion the  Reverend  Preserved  Smith  preached  liberal 
religion  to  his  flock,  up  here  on  the  windy  hilltops,  and 
not  a  soul  from  the  outside  world  interfered.  Of  course, 
he  was  at  last  discovered  in  his  heinous  offence,  and  the 
governing  body  of  the  New  England  church  took  drastic 
action;  but  it  was  too  late.  A  generation  without  a 
Covenant  and  a  creed  had  set  the  village  on  the  liberal 
path,  and  to  this  day  the  church  remains  Unitarian, 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         175 

I  love  to  think  of  those  ancient  days  on  the  hilltop, 
when  a  breed  of  men  and  women  who  tilled  the  fields, 
hewed  the  forest,  spun  their  own  warm  woollen  cloth, 
built  solidly  and  well  their  storm-defying  houses,  could 
wrestle  with  the  dogmas  of  Calvinism,  overthrow  them, 
struggle  up  toward  liberal  thought,  and,  from  their  high- 
flung  pastures,  defy  the  ecclesiastical  big-wigs  on  the 
plains.  They  were  a  splendid  race,  and  each  generation 
sent  out  splendid  men  into  the  nation.  Even  in  my  boy- 
hood they  were  still  a  splendid  race,  though  an  aged  one. 
They  were  narrow,  they  were  often  ignorant,  but  they 
were  shrewd,  humorous,  independent,  neighbourly,  with 
a  love  for  their  hills  less  expressive,  perhaps,  but  no  less 
intense  than  the  love  of  the  Southern  mountaineers. 
I  once  encountered  a  mountaineer  in  the  Tennessee 
Cumberlands  who  had  gone  to  Texas  and  started  well 
on  a  fine  ranch.  But,  after  two  years,  he  was  back 
again  in  his  tumble-down  cabin  at  the  head  of  Thump- 
ing Dick  Cove. 

"Didn't  you  like  Texas?"  I  asked  him. 

"Yes,"  he  drawled.  "I  liked  it  well  enough.  But 
come  every  Spring,  I  took  to  chillin'.  It  didn't  agree 
with  me." 

That  was  his  way  of  saying  he  was  so  homesick  for 
his  hills  that  he  gave  up  ambition  and  the  prospects  of  a 
comfortable  fortune  to  return  to  his  mountain  cove- 
side. 

So  the  old  folk  used  to  be  in  our  New  England  hill 


176    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

towns  when  I  first  made  their  acquaintance.  Already 
their  lot  was  getting  hard,  as  the  lowlands  drained  the 
best  of  their  youngsters  away  from  them,  and  our 
changing  civilization  made  the  problem  of  living  without 
money  to  exchange  for  goods  once  produced  at  home, 
increasingly  difficult.  But  they  loved  their  homes, 
they  cherished  intensively  their  traditions,  in  silence 
they  would  take  me  to  some  hilltop  whence  a  vista 
stretched  over  green  mountain  billows  and  ravines  of 
steely  shadow  to  the  far  plains  or  the  blue  saddle  of 
Graylock,  and  in  the  sunset  hush  and  still  time  of  the 
world  let  their  gray  eyes  wander  back  at  last  to  the  little 
white  village  straggling  up  the  slope  at  their  feet,  and 
say,  gruffly:  "It's  kind  o'  sightly,  hain't  it?" 

But  that  generation  is  almost  gone,  and  with  its 
passing  many  a  white  farmhouse  built  of  home-hewn 
oak  and  chestnut  beams,  of  clear  pine  boarding  and 
clapboards  cut  from  first-growth  spruce,  is  vacant  of 
human  occupants,  and  soon  will  be  in  ruins.  The  hill- 
top towns  are  passing,  the  stock  who  settled  them  is 
dying  out.  There  are  favoured  villages,  to  be  sure, 
where  the  rising  tide  of  summer  home  seekers  has 
brought  a  new  prosperity,  though  a  prosperity  quite 
unlike  the  old  and  lacking  its  flavour  of  democratic 
independence.  In  some  cases,  too,  the  driving  through 
of  state  highways  by  the  shortest  route,  over  hill  and 
dale,  has  brought  certain  towns  into  new  communica- 
tion with  the  outside  world.  But  for  the  most  part  our 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         177 

hilltop  communities  are  slipping  rapidly  back  into 
decay  and  even,  at  times,  degeneracy.  It  seems  almost 
impossible  for  the  pioneer  to  remain  true  to  his  breed 
when  once  the  modern  world  has  surrounded  him.  His 
good  young  blood  begins  to  hear  the  siren  call  of  the 
cities,  and  decay  sets  in. 

Yet  even  in  their  decay  our  hill  towns  keep  an  old- 
world  charm.  Their  names,  too,  are  picturesque. 
There  is  Florida,  on  top  of  the  mountain  close  to  the 
new  Mohawk  Trail.  It  was  here  that  a  passing  auto- 
mobilist  once  asked  a  little  girl  by  the  roadside  where 
she  lived. 

"Florida,"  the  child  replied. 

"My,  you  are  a  long  way  from  home,  aren't  you?" 
exclaimed  the  tourist. 

Then  there  is  Peru,  swept  by  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
where  the  general  store  and  the  two  or  three  houses  at 
the  crossroads,  which  you  reach  after  an  endless  climb, 
mark  the  centre  of  village  life,  and  it  might  be  said  (as  it 
is  said  of  Goshen,  Connecticut)  that  the  inhabitants 
never  use  their  snow  till  the  second  Winter.  Peru  is  a 
hotbed  of  political  strife,  and  the  license  question,  too,  is 
a  burning  issue.  Last  year  the  town  went  wet  by  a 
large  majority,  twenty-one  to  fourteen,  if  I  remember 
correctly.  Mount  Washington  Township,  under  the 
cone  of  Mount  Everett,  and  above  the  leaping  Bash  Bish 
Falls,  boasts  fourteen  voters,  twelve  of  them  staunch 
Republicans.  It  is  said  that  every  man  in  the  village 


178    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

holds  a  town  office.  New  Maryborough  (birthplace  of 
"The  Learned  Blacksmith")  and  Monterey  are  other 
towns  with  sonorous  names.  They  are  reached  only 
by  the  toilsome  ascent  of  Three  Mile  Hill,  and  several 
other  hills  besides,  and  though  in  Summer  a  new  life  has 
come  to  them  now,  in  Winter  they  are  still  as  isolated 
as  of  old,  dependent  on  themselves  for  their  intellectual 
life  and  their  enjoyment,  if  not  any  longer  for  their  flour 
and  clothing. 

If  you  pass  eastward  from  New  Marlborough,  ten 
miles  over  one  of  the  worst  roads  in  Massachusetts,  in 
part  through  second-growth  scrub  (for  all  this  hill 
region  has  been  ruthlessly  and  stupidly  stripped  of  its 
timber),  in  part  through  fields  too  plainly  showing  neg- 
lect or  actual  abandonment,  you  come  presently  to  the 
other  side  of  the  plateau,  where  the  hamlet  of  Sandis- 
field  hangs  on  the  brink.  Here  are  the  typical  hill- 
town  white  dwellings,  the  meeting  house  and  town  hall, 
and  here  the  road  is  so  steep  as  it  plunges  over  that  all 
the  soil  has  slipped  off  it  and  gone  down  the  hill,  leaving 
the  naked  ledge.  It  was  in  Sandisfield  that  the  post- 
mastership  was  once  forced  on  a  reluctant  citizen,  who 
presently  amused  the  county  by  advertising  a  horse  for 
sale,  and  guaranteeing  to  throw  in,  to  the  purchaser,  one 
harness  and  "a  perfectly  good  United  States  post 
office." 

Down  the  hill  from  Sandisfield  is  New  Boston,  in  the 
upper  gorge  of  the  Farmington  River.  It  is  fifteen  miles 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         179 

from  trolley  or  railroad,  and  the  carriage  road  down  the 
river  is  none  too  good.  But  it  boasts  its  saw  mill,  its 
little  street  of  white  houses,  even  its  Inn,  once  long 
ago  a  tavern  on  the  Hartford-Albany  turnpike,  and  now 
a  resort  of  adventurous  automobilists.  The  old  turn- 
pike climbs  north  through  Otis,  another  hill  town  far  re- 
moved from  lines  of  modern  travel  and  sitting  sleepily  by 
the  road  where  once  the  stage  coaches  rattled  through, 
its  old  tavern  still  open  but  all  its  romance  gone, 
shabbiness  and  decay  slowly  but  surely  setting  their 
mark  on  the  village  as  a  plucked  flower  withers  in  a  vase. 
But  of  all  our  towns  upon  a  hill,  Beartown  has  suf- 
fered most  from  the  changed  conditions.  It  lies — or, 
rather,  it  lay — on  a  high  plateau,  the  ten-mile-long, 
flat  summit  of  Beartown  Mountain,  between  Monterey 
to  the  south  and  the  valley  town  of  South  Lee  to  the 
north,  with  Stockbridge  on  the  west  and  Tyringham  on 
the  northeast.  A  century  ago  this  plateau,  which  is 
fertile  and  pleasant  at  an  altitude  of  almost  eighteen 
hundred  feet,  was  inhabited  by  a  considerable  popula- 
tion and  produced  many  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of 
wool,  lumber,  grain,  and  maple  sugar  every  year. 
There  were  well-tilled  farms  and  acres  of  close-cropped 
pasture.  Trout  brooks  flowed  down  its  ravines.  It 
boasted  among  the  inhabitants  a  famous  weather 
prophet,  Levi  Beebe,  who  is  still  a  Berkshire  tradition. 
Up  and  down  the  steep  roads  that  climbed  to  it  from 
the  valley  passed  the  wagons  of  the  Beartown  farmers. 


180    GREEN  TRAILS  AND,  UPLAND  PASTURES 

But  to-day  Beartown,  as  a  separate  community,  is  a 
memory.  There  are  but  five  families  left  on  the  entire 
plateau,  and  one  or  two  of  them  live  by  squatter  sov- 
ereignty. Recently  there  was  an  outbreak  of  small- 
pox among  them  which  remained  unknown  to  the 
county  health  authorities  for  more  than  a  month.  You 
climb  the  steep,  winding  road  from  South  Lee,  above  the 
ravine  where  a  trout  brook  babbles,  and  you  meet  no- 
body. You  pass  a  cabin  poorer  than  that  of  a  Southern 
mountaineer  and  come  to  the  fork  where  of  old  the  road 
split  to  reach  both  sides  of  the  plateau,  finding  one  fork 
hardly  more  than  a  trail  through  the  woods,  while  the 
other  shows  grass  between  the  ruts.  Mile  after  mile  you 
tramp  past  fields  unploughed,  uncared  for,  or  actually 
overrun  by  the  new  forest,  with  here  and  there  the  old 
stone  walls  cropping  out  amid  the  golden-rod  and  mul- 
leins and  raspberry  vines,  or  striding  off  through  the 
woods  to  show  where  once  the  open  ranges  lay.  You 
pass  houses  sometimes  with  a  shy-faced  child  at  the 
door,  staring  as  children  stare  who  are  unaccustomed  to 
strangers;  sometimes  with  only  the  blank  countenance 
of  dwellings  vacant  and  abandoned.  And  finally,  be- 
fore the  road  plunges  down  the  hill  again  to  Monterey, 
you  come  upon  the  ruin  of  a  genuine  Colonial  dwelling, 
with  fanlight  and  panelled  walls,  and  all  the  chaste 
luxury  of  our  grandfathers'  homes,  settling  slowly  into  a 
heap  of  bricks  and  rotten  lumber.  The  forest  stares 
hungrily  at  it  from  across  the  narrow  road — this  forest 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         181 

which  has  already  devoured  the  barn;  and  stalking  it 
from  behind  are  the  young  pines  and  birches,  yearly 
advancing  up  the  slope  of  the  garden.  You  may  look 
out  across  the  tops  of  those  birches  mile  upon  mile  to  the 
far  blue  hills  of  Connecticut.  It  is  a  lovely  and  a  peace- 
ful and  a  fertile  spot,  where  once  the  traffic  passed 
hourly,  gossip  was  exchanged  at  the  gate,  and  the 
fields  were  animate  with  cattle.  There  is  no  life  now 
but  the  birds  and  the  squirrels,  and  a  woodchuck  which 
last  year  had  made  his  hole  beneath  the  kitchen  door 
sill.  This  beautiful  dwelling  is  a  ruin  in  the  wilderness. 
Beartown  is  no  more.  The  hilltop  that  man  conquered 
a  brief  century  ago  has  been  captured  by  a  counter 
charge,  and  the  wilderness  once  more  holds  possession. 
There  has  been  much  talk  in  recent  years  about 
"redeeming"  our  western  Massachusetts  hill  towns. 
From  time  to  time  agitations  have  been  started  to 
persuade  the  legislature  to  grant  trolley  franchises, 
which,  in  some  mysterious  way,  the  New  Haven  Rail- 
road was  going  altruistically  to  use  in  the  process  of 
redemption.  More  promising  have  been  the  move- 
ments to  bring  state  highways  a  little  closer  to  these 
isolated  communities.  But  I  sometimes  wonder  if 
there  is  much  use  in  all  this  effort.  Our  hill  towns,  ex- 
cept in  such  rare  instances  as  Litchfield,  Connecticut, 
were  pioneer  communities,  even  though  they  carried 
with  them  up  the  cascades  of  thank-you-marms  cer- 
tain architectural  graces  and  theological  formulae  of 


182    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  plains.  They  remained  pioneer  communities  for  a 
century,  while  all  around  them  the  conditions  of  life 
were  changing,  railroads  were  built,  modern  centralized 
industrialism  was  born,  large-scale  farming  and  stock 
raising  superseded  the  old-time  local  husbandry,  and 
what  markets  the  hill  people  had  found  for  their  sur- 
plus produce  disappeared.  With  the  final  exhaustion 
of  their  timber  (due,  of  course,  to  ignorant  and  short- 
sighted methods  of  lumbering),  they  ceased  to  be  desir- 
able dwelling  places  for  the  intelligent  and  energetic, 
and  became  the  abode,  too  often,  only  of  the  dull  and 
unenergetic  remnant  of  the  old  breed,  who  clung,  from 
inertia,  and  feebly  fought  decay. 

Is  it  of  any  use  to  talk  of  "redemption"?  What 
redemption  is  possible?  The  old,  happy,  independent, 
stimulating  agricultural  life  of  these  hill  towns  can 
never  be  restored,  at  any  rate,  because  such  isolation 
as  still  must  remain  their  portion,  thanks  to  their 
physical  sites,  cannot  be  endured  by  the  energetic  man 
or  woman  in  the  midst  of  the  modern  world.  The 
pioneer  perishes  when  his  flank  is  turned  by  a  rail- 
road and  a  motor  highway.  Agriculturally,  too,  these 
hills  are  now  of  little  actual  value.  To  be  sure,  as 
sheep  and  even  cattle  ranges  they  have  great  potential 
possibilities,  but  we  shall  have  to  educate  our  entire 
nation  before  those  possibilities  can  be  realized,  mean- 
while meekly  bowing  our  necks  and  opening  our  purses 
to  the  meat  barons.  Regarding  our  forests,  however, 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  ON  THE  HILL         183 

we  are  already  a  little  enlightened,  and  as  I  tramp  our 
hills  and  see  the  young  spruce  creeping  back;  as  I  note 
some  patriarch  pine  spared  by  a  miracle  and  bravely 
setting  to  work,  with  the  aid  of  the  wind  and  a  near-by 
cleared  field,  to  reforest  the  land  with  its  seedlings,  I 
often  wonder  if  that  is  not  the  solution  of  our  hill-town 
problem.  We  need  the  lumber,  in  all  conscience,  and 
as  state  forests  the  areas  of  these  hill  townships  could 
be  vastly  more  productive  economically  than  they  are 
to-day;  they  could,  in  many  cases  if  not  in  most,  give 
profitable  employment  to  as  many,  if  not  more  men 
than  are  at  present  registered  on  the  voting  lists;  and, 
finally,  there  would  be  thus  created;  out  of  what  to-day 
amounts  to  waste  land,  great  public  parks  and  game 
preserves  which  could  be  opened  for  vacation  play- 
grounds, as  the  national  forests  of  the  West  are  opened. 
The  hilltop  villages  need  not  die;  indeed,  they  would 
not  die.  They  would  be  at  the  heart  of  the  forest  life, 
human  centres  in  the  busy  wilderness,  and  each  in 
time,  no  doubt,  as  trails  were  laid  out  and  forest  vaca- 
tion tramps  or  horseback  trips  became  popular,  would 
boast  its  inn,  high  above  the  plains,  in  true  mountain 
air  scented  by  spruce  and  hemlock  and  the  fragrant 
odour  of  newly  cut  pine.  Germany  has  (or  had)  its 
Black  Forest — a  national  resource  and  a  national 
playground.  Our  western  Massachusetts  hill  country 
is  neither  a  resource  to-day  nor  even  a  playground, 
save  in  a  few  scattered  cases.  It  might  so  easily  be 


184    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

both,  and  there  seems  little  chance  of  its  becoming  either 
save  by  state  reforestation.  Our  hill  people  cannot  be 
trusted  to  reforest  for  themselves;  they  lack  the  in- 
telligence now,  even  if  they  possessed  the  capital  or  the 
ambition.  So  I  climb  the  thank-you-marm  rapids 
past  a  tumbling  brook,  through  scrub  timber  where  the 
half-hidden  hemlocks  are  bravely  striving  up  amid 
the  stump  shoots,  past  fields  where  the  vivid  painter's 
brush  and  the  white  Queen  Anne's  lace  are  disputing 
possession  with  the  invading  forest,  on  my  way  toward 
some  gently  dying  hamlet  on  the  windy  hills  above 
— a  hamlet  without  a  doctor  now  and  perhaps  without 
a  parson — and  I  dream  of  a  day  when  the  splendid,  up- 
standing forest  trees  will  rise  again  as  they  rose  of  old, 
to  be  harvested  aright  this  second  time  for  the  good  of 
all  future  generations;  when  through  their  cathedral 
aisles  will  wind  such  trails  as  sturdy  trampers  love, 
leading  from  camp  to  camp  beside  a  waterfall  or  over- 
looking some  splendid  gorge  or  placid  pond;  and,  still 
fulfilling  its  social  function  and  keeping  its  pioneer 
character,  each  ancient  village  on  its  hilltop  shall  be 
the  heart  and  watch  tower  of  the  people's  preserve. 
It  is  a  splendid  dream,  I  think,  and  some  day  I  expect 
myself  to  see  its  realization  begun,  even  in  Massachu- 
setts, which  has  a  quaint  faculty  of  every  now  and 
then  kicking  clean  over  the  traces  of  tradition  in  which 
it  usually  plods,  and  doing  something  radical  and  emi- 
nently sane. 


CHAPTER  XII 
R.  F.  D. 

I  NEVER  write  the  initials,  R.  F.  D.,  on  the  cor- 
ner of  an  envelope,  or  see  them  written  there,  with- 
out a  curious  thrill,  which  I  fancy  must  be  shared 
by  all  country-bred  Americans.  Railroads,  trolleys, 
motors,  movies,  magazines,  the  tremendous  growth  of 
our  cities,  have  made  us  sophisticated,  so  that  a  large 
number  of  us  have  but  the  vaguest  idea  how  the  rest 
of  us  live,  which  sounds  like  a  paradox  but  isn't.  My 
boyhood,  for  example,  was  spent  in  a  New  England 
village  less  than  fifteen  miles  from  Boston,  yet  the 
North  Parish,  four  miles  away,  was  still  only  to  be 
reached  by  a  yellow  stage  coach  slung  on  swaying 
straps,  the  partridges  came  for  grain  into  our  stable 
yard,  and  the  lives  of  the  farmers  along  the  country 
roads  were  as  well  known  to  me  as  the  cases  of  stuffed 
animals  in  the  lobby  of  the  old  Boston  Museum,  where 
I  went  once  a  week  to  see  the  play,  or  the  maze  of 
alleys  cutting  across  Cornhill,  which  I  threaded  to 
and  from  the  station.  To-day  a  trolley  runs  to  the 
North  Parish,  and  what  once  were  back-country  roads 
are  now  lined  with  suburban  cottages.  One  farm  is  a 

185 


186    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

golf  club  now!  There  is  a  movie  theatre  where  an  old 
Colonial  house  used  to  stand  by  the  village  green,  the 
village  trees  have  disappeared;  the  village,  in  fact,  has 
disappeared.  That  sophisticated  thing,  a  suburb,  has 
displaced  it,  and  the  old  democracy  between  town  and 
country  is  no  more.  The  present  generation  is  sharply 
divided,  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the  urban  element 
to  have  very  little  consciousness  that  the  other  still 
exists.  The  self-sufficiency  of  our  American  cities  is 
rather  naively  amusing,  in  fact. 

Yet  we  have  only  to  consult  the  records  of  the  Post 
Office  department  to  realize  what  a  tremendous  num- 
ber of  Americans  are  in  communication  with  the  cities 
solely  by  the  aid  of  the  Rural  Free  Delivery.  Millions 
of  people  live  in  New  York,  who  nearly  perish  with 
the  cold  on  the  rare  occasions  when  the  thermometer 
drops  to  zero.  Their  newspapers  print  long  stories 
about  it  on  the  front  pages.  Yet  up  here  in  the  hills 
where  I  live,  not  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away,  we 
go  about  our  business  with  the  mercury  at  twenty 
below — properly  dressed  for  it,  of  course,  which  your 
city  dweller  never  is;  and  one  of  our  rural  mail  men, 
who  is  a  woman,  drives  her  plodding  nag  twice  a  day 
across  the  bitterly  cold  flats,  wind-swept  and  drift-piled, 
carrying  the  messages  from  the  outer  world  to  the  little 
hamlet  under  the  mountain,  cheerful  as  the  chickadees 
in  the  evergreens  beside  the  road.  She  has  made 
that  journey  twice  a  day  every  day  for  more  than 


R.  F.  D.  187 

twenty-five  years,  though  sometimes  a  six-horse  sled 
had  to  precede  her  to  break  the  drifts.  Scattered  along 
her  path  are  little  white  houses  and  big  gray  barns. 
In  front  of  each  house  is  a  tin  mail  box  on  a  post  or 
tree.  The  rattle  of  her  buggy  wheels  or  the  jingle 
of  her  sleigh-bells  down  the  road  proclaims  her  coming, 
and  even  if  she  bears  no  mail  for  the  waiting  box  she 
bears  a  greeting  and  a  bit  of  gossip  for  the  housewife 
in  the  door.  I  see  her  pass  out  of  our  village  every 
day,  with  her  mail  bags  around  her  feet,  and  she  seems 
to  me  a  symbol  of  the  simpler,  rural  America  that  was 
once  so  close  to  the  consciousness  of  all  of  us,  and  which 
we  are  but  now  beginning  to  realize  must  not  be  allowed 
to  perish  or  we  perish,  too,  the  victims  of  a  top-heavy 
industrialism  and  prohibitive  food  prices. 

The  Rural  Free  Delivery  marks  the  outmost  ex- 
tension of  our  great  postal  service,  and  like  all  institu- 
tions on  the  frontier  it  is  less  mechanical  and  more 
human  than  the  central  portions  of  the  system.  In 
the  city  post  offices,  men  are  machines;  mail  wagons  or 
motor  trucks  are  juggernauts,  letters  are  shot  through 
tubes  and  sped  toward  their  destination  on  trains. 
But  the  system  is  already  less  impersonal  before  the  ru- 
ral deliverer  receives  his  pouches  and  packets.  They 
are  often  given  to  him  in  a  small  office  where  familiar- 
ity reigns,  and  the  postmaster  or  mistress  peers  at 
you  as  you  enter  the  door,  and  has  your  letters  waiting 
when  you  reach  the  little  arched  window.  In  such  a 


188    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

post  office  may  be  found  almost  a  current  history  of  the 
village.  In  the  windows  are  home-made  posters  an- 
nouncing a  church  supper,  a  high  school  basket  ball 
game,  a  political  rally.  On  the  bulletin  board,  and 
spilling  from  it  out  on  the  adjacent  walls,  are  lost-and- 
found  notices,  gloves,  hair  ribbons,  and  other  trifles 
picked  up  on  the  road  and  pinned  here  awaiting  an 
owner,  the  tax  collector's  warning,  the  list  of  voters,  a 
plea  for  soldiers  to  join  the  United  States  army,  the 
fish  and  game  laws,  a  coloured  picture  of  a  gypsy  moth, 
and  the  list  of  unclaimed  letters  for  the  week.  Every 
one  in  the  village  comes  to  the  post  office,  even  if 
only  for  the  reason  that  brought  the  old  gentleman  in 
Mr.  Ade's  fable,  who  went  every  day  because  in  1888 
he  got  a  seed  catalogue.  The  post  office  is  a  social 
institution  and  a  clearing  house  for  information,  no 
less  than  a  means  of  distributing  mail.  It  is  from 
such  an  office  that  the  Rural  Delivery  man  sets  out 
whom  we  are  about  to  follow.  He  will  take  us  back 
into  a  world  which  some  of  us  had  almost  forgotten. 
This  particular  carrier  still  drives  a  buggy.  Many 
of  his  fellows,  especially  those  with  long  routes  in 
regions  where  the  Winters  are  not  severe  nor  the  dry 
roads  long  delayed  in  Spring,  now  employ  one  of 
those  small,  cheap  automobiles  that  have  been  the 
admiration  of  the  European  armies.  But  our  carrier 
is  in  a  northern  mountain  region  where  as  yet  macadam 
is  almost  unknown,  and  a  motor  would  be  impracticable 


R.  F.  D.  189 

for  more  than  four  or  at  most  five  months  in  the  year. 
He  not  only  delivers  along  the  route,  but  he  carries  the 
mail  to  the  little  post  office  far  from  the  railroad  at  the 
end  of  his  journey.  That  is  in  a  leather  sack  or  two  at 
his  feet.  The  route  mail  is  on  the  seat  beside  him,  along 
with  a  pile  of  private  parcels,  purchases  he  has  been  com- 
missioned to  make  by  those  whom  we  had  almost  called 
his  patients.  His  is  an  ordinary-looking  buggy,  and  a 
somewhat  less  than  ordinary-looking  horse.  He  wears 
no  uniform.  Yet  he  and  his  outfit  are  mysteriously 
invested  with  the  dignity  of  Uncle  Sam.  He  is  carrying 
the  United  States  Mail,  and  though  we  call  him  Tom 
and  have  known  him  familiarly  since  boyhood,  we  would 
not  dream  of  interfering  with  his  journey.  Somehow, 
for  us,  he  represents  the  cooperative  ideal  made  mani- 
fest. He  is  our  servant — and  our  fellow  townsman. 
To  interfere  with  him  would  be  to  interfere  with  every 
citizen  of  the  village,  of  the  nation.  It  is  easier  to 
visualize  democracy  in  the  form  of  Tom  Sherburn  than 
that  of  a  mail  tube  to  the  Grand  Central  Station! 

Tom's  buggy  jogs  down  the  village  street  and  in 
under  the  shadow  of  the  old  covered  bridge,  where  the 
cross  planking  rattles  loudly  and  there  is  a  curious  smell 
known  to  every  one  familiar  with  old  covered  bridges, 
and  quite  indescribable  to  anybody  else.  Inside  the 
bridge  are  tin  posters  advertising  liniment  for  man  and 
beast,  and  up  in  the  cobwebs  hang  wisps  of  hay  caught 
from  some  passing  load.  Through  the  little  square 


190    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

windows  you  catch  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  brown 
river  and  bending  willows — a  pretty  picture  in  a  dusky 
frame.  After  the  road  has  crossed  the  bridge,  it  fol- 
lows up  the  side  of  the  river,  rapidly  leaving  the  village 
behind,  taking  us  toward  the  hills. 

How  gracefully  the  road  swings  with  the  curves  of  the 
stream,  each  bend  ending  one  tree-shaded  vista,  and, 
once  it  is  passed,  beginning  another!  The  brown  water 
is  visible  always  at  our  side,  between  the  willows,  the 
white  birches,  the  swaying  alders  that  dip  their  twigs 
into  the  rushing  water  in  the  Spring.  The  soil  is  moist 
here,  and  tall  meadow  rue  lines  the  road.  Over  the 
wall  and  beyond  the  .fringe  of  trees  on  the  opposite  side 
from  the  stream  are  level  fields  of  hay  or  corn,  rich  bot- 
tom lands  with  now  and  then  stately  vase  elms  marching 
across  them  along  the  bank  of  some  hidden  swale — once, 
perhaps,  the  bed  of  the  river.  The  farmhouses  here  are 
prosperous,  with  big  red  barns,  and  the  mail  boxes  are 
nailed  to  painted  posts  close  beside  the  sandy  road,  with 
little  red  flags  which  are  raised  straight  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  mail  is  to  be  collected,  as  a  signal  to  Tom. 
Nor  is  there  much  gossip  here  when  the  carrier  comes  by. 
The  folk  on  these  farms  are  too  busy — and,  perhaps, 
too  near  the  village.  It  is  a  well-known  law  of  physics 
that  roadside  gossip  varies  directly  with  the  distance 
from  town. 

It  is  when  the  road  begins  to  leave  the  river  bottom 
and  wind  up  the  long  hill  toward  the  forested  plateau 


R.  F.  D.  191 

that  the  farms  lose  their  bustle  and  Tom  pulls  his  old 
horse  up  for  a  moment  under  the  shade  of  a  big  sugar 
maple,  while  a  leisurely  figure  in  the  traditional  straw 
hat  comes  to  the  split  rail  fence,  or  the  stone  wall,  and 
holds  converse.  Has  Tom  seen  a  paper  that  morning? 
What  are  them  German  nuisances  up  to  now?  Is  it 
true  beans  are  forty  cents  a  quart?  Well,  well,  and  he 
didn't  put  in  more'n  two  rows,  and  might  hev  put  in  ten 
times  as  many  more,  seein's  how  he  cut  off  the  poverty 
birch  last  winter  from  the  upper  pasture  and  hed  the 
poles,  or  could  hev  hed  'em,  if  he  hadn't  cut  'em  up  fer 
stove  wood.  What's  goin'  to  be  the  end  of  this  cost  o' 
things,  anyhow?  It's  gettin'  so  a  man  can't  afford  to 
buy  grain  for  his  cattle,  and  without  no  cattle,  you  ain't 
got  no  manure,  and  without  no  manure  you  can't  keep 
up  your  land — and  there  you  be!  Having  arrived  at 
this  melancholy  predicament,  and  seeing  no  way  out,  he 
gazes  across  the  valley  fields  below  to  the  rising  green 
wall  of  the  hill  beyond,  while  Tom  flecks  off  a  horse  fly 
with  his  whip  and  adds  his  bit  of  complaint  that  Uncle 
Sam  ain't  raisin'  his  pay  none,  either,  and  the  horse 
costin'  more  to  feed  every  day. 

Either  the  fleck  of  the  whip  or  the  mention  of  food 
causes  the  horse  gently  to  move  forward,  and,  thus  re- 
minded, Tom  clucks  to  him  and  goes  on  up  the  road. 
But  he  seems  quite  cheerful  when  he  reaches  the  last 
house  up  the  hill,  and  stops  to  give  Mrs.  Sanborn  her 
pound  of  tea  and  the  bottle  of  medicine  he  promised  to 


192    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

get  for  her  when  he  went  by  early  that  morning.  Few 
can  be  ill  along  the  road  without  Tom  knowing  it,  and 
not  many  without  his  learning,  too,  what  brand  of  med- 
icine they  are  taking.  Mrs.  Sanborn  has  cramps,  which 
is  an  extremely  euphonious  way  of  stating  a  desire  for 
alcoholic  stimulation,  equally  euphoniously  supplied  by 
Jamaica  ginger.  Mrs.  Sanborn  strongly  disapproves  of 
the  cider  drinking  which  goes  on  in  the  rural  regions, 
especially  of  the  custom,  hallowed  by  tradition,  of  letting 
a  barrel  of  hard  cider  freeze  almost  solid  and  then, 
on  a  winter  night,  boring  a  hole  into  the  heart  of  the  ice 
cake  and  extracting  the  highly  stimulating  unfrozen 
core.  But  Mrs.  Sanborn's  secret  remains  compara- 
tively secure  with  Tom  and  the  village  druggist.  "Live 
and  let  live"  is  still  the  motto  in  a  land  of  individualists. 
Tom  is  generally  whistling  again  by  the  time  he 
reaches  the  top  of  the  long  trail  and  enters  the  deep 
woods  on  the  summit  plateau.  But  his  whistle  ceases 
as  the  horse's  hoofs  sound  less  metallic  on  the  damper 
ground,  or  in  Autumn  swish  and  thud  softly  through  the 
fallen  leaves.  Here  in  these  woods,  where  the  sunlight 
is  dappled  gold  and  there  are  dim  green  vistas,  Tom 
likes  to  drive  slowly,  enjoying  the  cool  shadows  in 
Summer,  the  hushed,  windless  calm  in  Winter,  and  only 
in  Spring  annoyed  by  the  frost  holes  and  black,  mucky 
ruts.  Here  he  sometimes  surprises  a  deer,  which 
bounds  away  through  the  forest,  and  almost  daily  a 
rabbit  or  two  scamper  across  his  path,  or  a  partridge 


R.  F.  D.  193 

goes  drumming  up  and  whirrs  down  an  evergreen  aisle. 
Tom  was  a  mighty  hunter  in  his  younger  days,  and  has 
never  yet  forgiven  the  state  legislature  for  making 
it  illegal  for  him  to  go  out  with  a  gun  on  the  Sabbath 
(not,  of  course,  that  he  doesn't  go  out  with  a  gun  on  the 
Sabbath!).  This  drive  through  the  woods  appeals  to 
some  deep  instinct  within  him,  and  his  eyes  become  keen 
and  youthful.  He  likes,  too,  in  a  less  expressive  way, 
the  red  bunchberries  by  the  road,  the  bloodroot  and 
hepaticas  of  Spring,  the  gentians  in  the  late  Summer. 
He  loves  the  ground  pine  trailing  on  the  bank,  the  earthy 
smell,  the  distant  hammer  of  a  woodpecker,  the  sweet 
clarion  of  a  hermit  thrush.  It  seems  almost  as  if  such  a 
man,  passing  daily  through  this  timber  with  senses  alert 
and  instinctive  sympathy  with  nature,  might  fashion  a 
woodland  lyric  to  the  rhythmic  plod  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
and  the  gentle  sway  of  the  buggy.  So  far  as  we  know, 
however,  Tom  has  never  broken  into  verse.  His  near- 
est approach  was  his  statement  one  day  to  a  summer 
boarder  in  the  big  farmhouse  down  the  hill  on  the  other 
side. 

"  I  seen  the  white  tail  of  a  deer  go  boundin'  off  through 
the  balsams,"  he  said,  "like  a  snowball  through  a  velvet 
veil." 

The  forest  is,  in  reality,  on  the"  crest  of  a  divide,  and 
when  the  road  emerges  on  the  farther  side  a  splendid 
prospect  opens  out.  The  road  plunges  abruptly  down, 
past  a  sentinel  pine  and  over  a  cascade  of  thank-you- 


194    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

marms,  into  a  mountain  intervale,  an  isolated  com- 
munity of  little  farms  which  is  walled  on  the  farther  side 
by  the  upspringing  green  flanks  of  the  major  range. 
From  the  broader  valley  where  Tom's  journey  began 
these  mountains  had  not  been  visible,  hidden  by  the 
foothills  and  the  forest  plateau.  They  come  into  the 
view  with  a  dramatic  suddenness,  never  quite  the  same 
under  the  changing  play  of  mist  and  light  and  cloud- 
shadow  upon  them,  and  never  seen,  however  often, 
without  a  secret  thrill. 

It  is  frequently  twilight,  in  Winter  it  may  be  quite 
dark,  when  Tom  comes  down  the  last  slope  into  the 
hamlet  which  is  journey's  end.  Perhaps  a  young 
moon  is  hanging  in  the  black  tracery  of  the  maple 
boughs  and  the  village  lights  are  golden  across  the  snow. 
All  his  packages  and  letters  have  been  distributed  and 
only  the  sacks  of  mail  at  his  feet  are  left.  The  usual 
familiar  crowd  is  awaiting  him,  in  Summer  under  the 
porch  in  front  of  the  store,  in  Winter  around  the  stove 
within.  The  post  office  is  one  corner  of  the  "general 
store,"  barricaded  off  by  a  partition  of  numbered  mail 
boxes  like  an  artificial  bee-hive  comb,  stood  on  end, 
except  that  it  has  a  little  window  in  the  centre  through 
which  the  postmaster  peers.  Tom  tosses  in  the  mail- 
sacks  over  the  counter,  and  warms  his  hands  at  the  stove, 
while  his  neighbours  interrogate  him  regarding  the  state 
of  the  road.  There  is  a  curious  smell  in  the  store,  of  ker- 
osene, coffee,  grain,  tobacco  smoke,  cotton  cloth,  bananas, 


R.  F.  D.  195 

and  newly  dampened  woollen  drying  by  the  stove. 
Familiar  faces  come  in  out  of  the  night;  the  mail  is 
sorted;  you  hear  the  rustle  of  newspapers;  and  then  the 
crowd  fades  away,  following  Tom  who  has  gone  home  to 
put  the  horse  in  her  stall  and  get  his  own  supper. 

Through  Summer  and  Winter,  through  storm  and 
shine,  the  rural  carrier  drives  every  morning  over  that 
route,  and  home  again  every  afternoon — twelve  miles 
from  this  mountain  intervale  to  the  little  town  by  the 
railroad,  and  twelve  long  miles  back  again — bringing  his 
messages  from  the  larger  world.  It  is  a  beautiful  road 
he  travels,  but  it  may  also  be  a  severe  one.  The  winter 
winds  howl  past  that  sentinel  pine  where  the  road 
breaks  out  of  the  forest;  the  drifts  pile  deep  in  the  cuts 
and  across  the  river  flats.  Tom  knows  from  long  ex- 
perience exactly  where  he  will  encounter  bare  ground 
and  where  the  snow  will  suddenly  pack  into  diagonal 
ridges  across  the  road,  some  rock  or  tree  or  wall  splitting 
the  blast,  so  that  his  "pung"  rides  them  like  a  boat  on  a 
choppy  sea.  Yet  Tom  and  his  old  horse  get  the  mail 
through.  That  is  what  Uncle  Sam  pays  him  for,  and  he 
harnesses  up  on  a  bitter  morning,  when  the  thermometer 
registers  twenty  below,  with  no  thought  of  heroism,  to 
make  a  twelve-mile  trip  which  no  automobile  on  earth 
could  negotiate  and  which  would  probably  put  the 
average  city  dweller  of  to-day  into  the  hospital  for  a 
month.  In  Spring  he  splashes  along  through  the  mud ;  in 
the  Autumn,  when  the  rains  come  down  from  the  cloud- 


196    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

enveloped  hills  and  the  trees  are  lashed  by  the  wind,  we 
still  see  him  jogging  past,  a  humble  but  a  human  and  a 
faithful  cog  in  the  great  machinery  of  our  government, 
linking  up  the  old,  pioneer  America  with  the  new. 

Nowadays  in  Summer  he  often  meets  automobiles 
bearing  registration  numbers  of  far  states,  drawn  here 
by  the  lure  of  the  mountains.  But  there  are  none  in 
Winter.  They  disappear  before  the  white  snow-caps  on 
the  range  have  crept  down  to  timber;  and  by  the  time 
the  world  is  on  runners,  Tom  meets  most  often  the  sleds 
of  the  lumber  men  hauling  the  precious  timber  to  the 
railroad,  or  bringing  out  the  cord  wood  which  makes  the 
wise  farmer  independent  of  coal.  Sometimes  a  load  of 
hay  on  runners  will  go  by,  on  its  way  to  some  farm  where 
the  supply  has  run  low,  and  then  Tom  will  have  to  turn 
out  of  the  single  track,  nearly  upsetting  his  pung  as  it 
dips  in  the  drift,  while  the  driver  on  top  of  the  hay 
shouts  a  "Thank  you!"  He  meets,  too,  the  school 
barge,  bringing  in  the  children  to  the  "centre  school," 
and  he  has  been  known  to  have  to  dodge  snowballs  on 
such  occasions.  He  meets  a  neighbour,  now  and  then, 
wrapped  up  to  the  ears  like  himself,  and  slipping  along 
over  the  blue-shadowed  road  with  jingling  sleigh-bells. 
But  always  it  is  the  simple  life  of  the  frontier  country 
that  he  encounters,  with  its  suggestion  of  a  living  wrung 
from  the  soil  and  a  mode  of  existence  dependent  on  the 
earth  and  its  moods  of  wind  and  weather.  It  is  not  a 
sign  of  intellectual  poverty  that  when  Tom  and  a 


R.  F.  D.  197 

neighbour  meet  on  the  road  one  of  them  is  almost  sure  to 
inquire:  "Well,  what's  it  goin'  to  do  to-morrow?"  If 
you  had  to  make  a  round  trip  every  day  over  Tom's 
route,  in  an  open  sleigh  or  buggy,  you  would  ask  the 
same  question,  with  a  good  bit  more  anxiety  in  your 
tone,  too,  than  he  betrays  when  the  northeast  winds  are 
piling  the  storm  scud  over  the  peaks  of  the  range  and 
trailing  fingers  of  cloud  down  the  slopes ! 

I  am  afraid  it  is  the  maintenance  of  Tom  and  his  kind 
by  the  Government  which  has  caused  one  interesting 
traveller  almost  to  disappear  from  the  country  roads — 
the  itinerant  merchant.  Some  still  exist,  but  they  are 
growing  fewer  every  year,  as  the  great  mail-order  houses 
increase  their  range.  I  well  remember  one  such  mer- 
chant of  my  boyhood.  He  kept  his  wagon,  between 
trips,  in  my  grandfather's  barn,  and  he  was  always 
familiarly  known  as  "Mr.  Wanamaker."  This  wagon, 
painted  a  gay  red  and  yellow,  was  shaped  like  a  huge 
box.  A  lid  lifted  behind  the  driver's  seat,  and  dis- 
closed such  bulky  objects  as  washboards,  boxes  of  soap, 
and  the  like.  The  back  of  the  wagon,  however,  was  the 
fascinating  part.  Climbing  out,  "Mr.  Wanamaker" 
(whose  real  name  was  Lovejoy,  and  he  had  ample  Burn- 
side  whiskers  which  gave  him  a  most  benevolent  expres- 
sion), came  around  to  the  rear,  like  a  butcher,  and  threw 
open  a  double  door,  while  the  farmer's  wife,  his  daugh- 
ters, and  all  and  sundry  female  visitors,  as  well  as  the 
children,  gathered  in  an  eager  group.  Behind  the  doors, 


198    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

arranged  in  the  most  skilful  manner,  were  all  the  con- 
tents of  a  well-equipped  dry  goods  store.  Everything 
was  there,  from  the  material  for  a  new  silk  dress  to  garter 
elastic  and  spools  of  thread  (the  spools  were  kept  in  a 
tier  of  little  drawers,  I  remember,  which  made  a  bright 
pattern  of  colour  when  pulled  out  and  displayed). 
There  was  always  much  rushing  about  and  snipping  of 
samples  when  "Mr.  Wanamaker"  drew  near,  and  then  a 
great  matching  of  these  samples  against  the  spools  of 
silk  or  cotton.  His  advice  was  regarded  with  great 
deference,  I  recall,  and  was  always  given  in  measured, 
judicial  tones. 

Then  there  was  the  tin  peddler  and  ragman,  too,  who 
made  periodical  visits  along  the  country  roads.  His 
cart,  less  spick  and  span  than  "Mr.  Wanamaker's,"  was 
a  curious  contrivance,  box-like  in  front,  with  a  rack  be- 
hind in  which  were  stowed  the  sacks  of  rags.  Behind 
the  driver,  like  yellow  plumes,  stuck  up  a  row  of  new 
brooms.  Smaller  whisk  brooms  dangled  from  the  sides, 
and  shining  pans  were  suspended,  also,  which  flashed 
in  the  sun  and  rattled  merrily  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  the  dejected  horse  consented  to  trot.  But  the  tin 
peddler  was  no  such  elegant  and  eminent  Anglo-Saxon 
person  as  Mr.  Lovejoy.  Business  with  him  was  con- 
ducted purely  as  business,  and  his  thumb  was  carefully 
watched  as  he  weighed  the  rags  on  the  rusty  scales  which 
hung  from  the  back  of  his  wagon,  giving  a  pot  or  a  pan 
or  a  broom  in  exchange. 


R.  F.  D.  199 

It  was  only  a  year  or  two  ago  that  I  encountered  a 
Wanamaker  on  wheels,  in  a  sleepy  little  hamlet  in 
Rhode  Island.  But  it  has  been  many  years  since  I  have 
seen  the  genuine  tin  peddler  and  ragman  of  my  boy- 
hood. Doubtless  the  rural  mail  carrier  has  taken  this 
job  away  from  all  such  itinerant  venders,  and  a  pictur- 
esque feature  of  rural  life  has  almost  vanished.  But  the 
rural  carrier  himself  still  journeys,  day  in  and  day  out, 
along  thousands  of  pleasant  country  roads,  through  rain 
and  shine,  mud  and  drift,  an  unsung  hero  of  faithfulness, 
a  link  between  our  modern  interdependent  industrial 
society  and  the  simpler  life  of  the  pioneer,  a  reminder  for 
all  of  us,  when  we  write  R.  F.  D.  on  a  letter,  that  rural 
America  still  exists,  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our 
countrymen  are  still  rural  Americans,  not  "soft,"  as  re- 
cent alarmists  would  have  us  believe,  but  hardy  from 
their  age-long  battle  with  soil  and  tree  and  winter  storm. 
The  talk  of  "softness "  emanates  from  city  dwellers.  If 
we  were  really  soft  as  a  nation,  at  any  rate,  a  large  part  of 
our  postal  service  would  come  to  an  abrupt  halt.  No 
man  who  was  soft  could  make  Tom  Sherburn's  trip,  from 
January  to  December. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY 

IT  IS  surprising  what  a  large  number  of  us  never  see 
the  sky,  never  see  it  intimately,  that  is  to  say,  if 
such  a  word  may  be  applied  to  our  relations  with 
immensity.  Dwellers  in  cities  or  towns,  travellers  of 
illuminated  highways,  we  never  hobnob  with  Orion  or 
feel  the  earth  ball  swinging  east  below  the  still  procession 
of  the  stars.  We  make  our  plans  for  the  morrow,  when 
they  are  dependent  on  the  weather,  by  consulting  not 
the  heavens  but  the  Herald.  The  sunset  means  little  to 
us,  and  the  sunrise  we  never  see.  A  high  flotilla  of  little 
wind  clouds  on  a  summer  day,  a  vast  Himalaya  of  cumuli 
piled  against  the  blue,  a  scudding  cloud-wrack  where 
the  moon  rides  like  a  golden  galleon  in  a  heavy  sea,  the 
great  downward  sweep  of  the  Milky  Way,  are  magnifi- 
cent handiworks  of  space  we  do  not  know,  meaningless 
and  unobserved.  Poor  bond  slaves  to  our  canon  walls 
and  municipal  illumination,  we  yet  walk  in  our  pride  and 
have  quaint  pity  for  the  plainsman,  the  sailor  ringed  by 
the  vast  horizon,  the  Yankee  farmer  who  watches  the 
clouds  after  sunrise,  the  action  of  the  mist  curtain  on  the 

mountain  side,  to  see  if  he  shall  cut  his  hay  that  morning. 

200 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  201 

Yet  those  of  us  who  dwell  in  the  open  have  our  pride, 
too,  and  our  pity  for  those  who  do  not  know  how  the 
firmament  showeth  His  handiwork;  those  to  whom  the 
simple  question,  "Well,  what's  it  going  to  do  to- 
morrow?" is  not  fraught  with  profound  importance. 

In  the  old  days  before  the  Government  took  a  hand 
at  prophecy  and  gave  its  weather  reports  each  day  to 
the  papers,  every  rural  community  boasted  its  own 
"weather  prophet,"  who  read  the  heavens  for  signs  and 
very  often  displayed  an  uncanny  shrewdness  in  pre- 
diction. Such  a  one  was  Levi  Beebe,  who  lived  on 
Beartown  Mountain  in  western  Massachusetts  and 
whose  fame  is  still  perpetuated  by  a  tablet  beside  the 
Berkshire  County  street  railroad.  These  old-time 
prophets  shared,  of  course,  in  the  common  weather 
lore  of  the  countryside,  some  of  it  borrowed  from 
the  Indians,  some  of  it  no  doubt  brought  from  England 
by  the  early  colonists,  but  still  more  of  it  the  slow  ac- 
cumulation of  rural  American  observers.  Not  a  little 
of  it  persists  to  this  day,  and  the  farther  back  you  get 
into  the  country,  the  larger  it  bulks  in  the  speech,  even 
in  the  belief  of  the  natives.  Was  there  ever  an  Ameri- 
can boy  who  did  not  learn  that, 

Mackerel  sky 

Never  leaves  the  earth  dry? 

Is  there  a  country  child,  even  to-day,  who  does  not 
hope  to  see  the  new  moon  over  his  right  shoulder,  which 


202    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

will  bring  him  good  luck,  and,  if  he  makes  a  wish,  will 
cause  that  wish  to  come  true,  especially  if  it  is  a  wish 
for  money  and  is  accompanied  by  the  jingling  of  some 
loose  change  in  the  pocket?  The  moon,  indeed,  is 
vastly  important.  Not  only  was  it  once  supposed 
that  all  crops,  especially  onions  and  beans,  did  better 
when  planted  in  the  old  of  the  moon  (the  beans,  other- 
wise, as  I  recall,  would  run  to  vine),  but  even  in  this 
day  of  popularized  science  you  will  hear  farmers  say, 
as  they  look  at  the  young  crescent:  "It's  goin'  to  be 
a  dry  month,"  or  "It's  goin'  to  be  a  wet  month."  In 
the  city  you  will  never  see  the  new  moon;  some  tall 
building  will  always  hide  it.  But  in  the  country,  as 
the  sunset  glow  is  dying  out,  as  the  bird  songs  are 
hushed  and  the  night  insects  have  not  begun  their 
antiphonal  chorus,  in  "the  still-time  of  the  world,"  you 
will  suddenly  become  aware  in  the  west  of  that  sweetly 
curved,  golden  crescent,  dropping  down,  perhaps,  into 
a  feathery  treetop,  or  hung  over  quiet  water,  or  poised 
on  the  tip  of  a  pointed  fir.  It  was  "an  old  Injun  sign" 
that  if  you  can  hang  your  powder  horn  on  the  new 
moon,  it  is  going  to  be  a  dry  month.  If  you  can't,  it 
will  be  a  wet  one.  Doubtless  this  superstition  goes 
back  to  some  primitive  belief  that  rains  come  from  the 
moon.  If  the  crescent  were  tipped  up  enough  to  hold 
the  powder  horn  on  one  point,  it  meant  the  crescent 
would  hold  water,  too.  Otherwise  the  water  would 
spill  out.  Though  nowadays  this  primitive  prediction 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  203 

is  made  with  a  smile,  as  I  listened  to  the  farmer  who 
made  it  I  have  more  than  once  been  reminded  of  a  little 
cousin  of  mine  who  stoutly  affirmed  there  were  no 
fairies,  but  when  she  went  to  "Peter  Pan"  she  applauded 
as  loudly  as  any  Miss  Adams's  appeal  for  all  who 
believed  in  fairies  to  clap  their  hands. 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  believe  in  fairies,"  said 
her  mother. 

"I  don't,"  she  answered.  "But  I  don't  want  Tinker 
Bell  to  die." 

The  skipper  of  the  Hesperus  was  wise  to  another 
belief  about  moon  signs. 

Last  night  the  moon  had  a  silver  ring, 
To-night  no  moon  we  see. 

Therefore,  he  argued,  they  were  in  for  a  storm,  and 
events  certainly  proved  him  right.  It  has  always  been 
a  common  belief  that  a  ring  around  the  moon  portends 
bad  weather,  and  it  used  to  be  further  added  that  the 
number  of  stars  visible  inside  the  moon  ring  indicate 
the  number  of  days  before  the  storm  will  come.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  sense  to  this  belief,  of  course,  for  the 
ring  means  thick  atmosphere,  and  the  thicker  it  is  the 
fewer  stars  will  be  visible  inside  the  ring  (or,  for  that 
matter,  anywhere  else !) .  The  moon  ring  is  still  used  by 
country  weather  prophets  as  a  basis  of  prediction,  and  in 
this  past  winter  I  have  several  times  seen  it  prove  a  reli- 
able prognosticator  of  snow. 


204    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

When  the  moon  is  riding  high  and  small  through  a 
driving  cloud-wrack,  the  farmer  on  his  way  in  from  his 
last  trip  to  the  barn  pauses  to  contemplate  it,  and  is 
aware  of  the  curious  alternation  of  moonlight  and 
shadow  over  the  landscape,  almost  like  slow  lightning 
flashes  indefinitely  prolonged.  The  distant  fields,  the 
timbered  mountain  side,  come  into  dim  view,  and  then 
slowly  they  are  obliterated  again  as  a  dark  cloud  sweeps 
across  the  moon,  and  the  world  seems  to  shiver.  Then 
the  farmer  says  to  himself: 

Open  and  shet 
Is  a  sign  of  wet, 

and  looks,  perhaps,  to  see  if  the  spout  is  adjusted  over 
the  rain  barrel,  or  thinks  of  the  hay  he  had  to  leave  out 
in  the  field. 

Whether  "open  and  shet"  is  a  sign  of  wet  depends,  of 
course,  on  the  quality  of  the  clouds  and  the  direction 
of  the  wind,  and  to  read  these  more  intricate  signs  aright 
was  the  province  once  of  the  weather  prophets.  That 
they  could  tell  so  unerringly,  as  many  of  them  often 
did,  whether  the  clouds  were  "wind  clouds"  or  were 
shredded  off  from  some  storm  that  would  not  advance 
farther;  whether  they  threatened  actual  precipitation 
or  whether  changes  of  temperature  were  due  which 
would  alter  the  meteorological  conditions,  was  truly  a 
remarkable  proof  of  their  powers  of  observation  and 
deduction.  I  once  knew  an  old  woman  who  lived 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  205 

under  the  shadow  of  the  White  Mountains,  and  whose 
instinct  for  weather  changes  was  almost  uncanny. 
She  did  not  have  barometrical  bones,  either,  as  so 
many  old  people  maintain  they  have.  Her  deductions 
were  all  based  on  observation.  Once,  I  recall,  she  was 
taking  in  some  clothes  from  the  line,  at  ten  o'clock  at 
night — a  still,  starlit  night  without  a  cloud.  I  saw 
her  shadow  bobbing  about,  huge  and  fantastic,  on 
the  barn  wall,  thrown  from  the  lantern  she  carried  in 
her  left  hand,  and  went  out  to  ask  her  why  she  took 
the  clothes  in. 

"There  wa'n't  a  cloud  in  the  sky  all  day,"  she  said, 
"and  to-night  the  mountain's  talkin'." 

I  listened  carefully,  and  sure  enough  in  the  silence  I 
could  hear,  three  thousand  feet  above  us,  the  steady 
rush  of  wind  through  the  stunted  spruce  forest  at 
timber  line.  Up  there  the  wind  was  roaring,  then!  I 
thought  of  Martineau's  words,  that  the  noisy  hurricane 
rushes  silently  through  the  upper  spaces  where  there 
is  nothing  to  oppose  it — that  force  by  itself  is  silent. 
There  seemed  to  me  something  almost  Celtic,  too,  in 
this  old  Yankee  woman's  imagery.  And  her  prediction 
proved  correct:  the  next  day  came  a  deluge. 

In  this  connection,  I  wonder  how  many  boys  used 
to  do  what  we  lads  did  twenty-five  years  ago  in  eastern 
Massachusetts.  We  would  lay  our  ears  to  the  tele- 
graph poles,  and  if  "the  wires  were  buzzing,"  as  we  put 
it,  we  felt  sure  we  were  in  for  bad  weather.  This 


206    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

i 

quaint  superstition   could   not  have  had   an   ancient 

origin,  surely,  for  the  telegraph  is  a  nineteenth-century 
creation.  Yet  it  is  equally  certain  that  we  did  not  in- 
vent the  superstition  for  ourselves.  It  was  handed 
down  to  us  from  our  elders. 

Akin  to  the  saying  that  "open  and  shet  is  a  sign  of 
wet"  is  the  ancient  saw  that  if  you  can  see  enough 
blue  sky  to  make  a  pair  of  Dutchman's  breeches,  it  is 
going  to  clear  up.  I  have  found  this  saying  almost 
universally  familiar  to  young  and  old,  in  various  parts 
of  the  country.  How  well  I  remember,  in  my  child- 
"hood,  the  wide  divergences  of  opinion  which  used  to 
develop  between  my  parents  and  me  regarding  the  ex- 
act amount  of  material  required  for  a  Dutchman's 
nether  garments !  Standing  at  the  western  windows,  or 
on  the  veranda,  I  would  gaze  hopefully  at  the  cloud 
dome  overhead,  looking  for  a  rift,  and  when  one  ap- 
peared I  would  rush  to  my  mentors  with  the  informa- 
tion. It  did  no  good  to  look  for  it  in  the  east,  for 
unless  the  west  cleared  my  father  affirmed  that  no 
dependence  could  be  placed  even  on  the  bluest  sky. 
Dragging  my  parents  back  to  the  window,  I  would 
point  to  my  rift  of  blue  and  triumphantly  affirm  that  it 
would  make  at  least  six  pairs  of  breeches,  only  to  be 
told  that  I  hadn't  the  most  rudimentary  knowledge  of 
Dutch  fashions.  Before  I  was  allowed  to  venture 
forth  on  my  fishing  trip  or  hunting  expedition,  it 
seems  to  me  now  that  acres  of  blue  had  to  be  revealed 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  207 

through  the  parting  cloud-wrack.  Never  did  proverb 
have  a  more  annoying  flexibility  of  interpretation  than 
that  one! 

The  farmer,  the  dweller  in  the  open,  rises  early  and 
looks  at  once  to  the  sky.  Quite  aside  from  any  ma- 
terial considerations,  indeed,  the  weather  to  such  of  us 
seems  of  as  much  importance  as  the  temper  of  our 
companions,  and  almost  as  intimate.  We  look  at  the 
thermometer  as  soon  as  we  descend  the  stairs,  just  as 
we  look  at  it  the  last  thing  before  going  to  bed.  We 
gaze  at  the  eastern  horizon,  at  the  portent  of  the 
sky,  and  often  take  our  mood  therefrom.  We  step 
out,  perhaps,  to  see  if  the  "cobwebs"  are  on  the  grass, 
or  if  there  has  been  a  heavy  dew  (both  prophecies  to 
the  weather  wise),  and  in  the  freshness  of  the  new- waked 
world  we  lift  our  heads  to  the  great  dome  of  the  sky — 
felt  only  as  a  dome  when  the  eye  can  rove  the  full  hori- 
zon— and  see  there  the  little  flecks  and  streamers  of 
cloud,  touched  rosy  by  the  sun,  which  has  not  yet 
chased  the  shadows  from  the  world  about  our  feet, 
riding  to  meet  the  dawn.  The  sun  heaves  up  above 
the  world  rim,  the  shiver  of  night  chill  suddenly  de- 
parts as  the  long,  golden  rays  stream  over  the  moun- 
tains and  across  the  valley  to  our  feet,  the  birds  re- 
double their  song,  and  looking  aloft  again  we  see  the 
army  of  little  white  clouds,  like  spirits  of  the  night, 
vanishing  mysteriously  as  if  they  melted  into  the 
blue. 


208    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

Such  is  the  dawning  of  a  fair  summer  day.  But 
there  are  other  mornings  when  the  clouds  hang  heavier, 
low  in  the  heavens,  and  those  of  us  who  are  not  weather 
wise  are  in  doubt,  asking  the  first  neighbour  we  meet, 
"Well,  what's  it  going  to  do  to-day?"  Invariably, 
then,  both  questioner  and  questioned  come  to  a  pause, 
and  both  lift  their  faces  to  study  the  sky,  once  more 
aware  of  it  as  something  near  and  intimate.  If  the 
sun  goes  into  a  cloud  soon  after  rising,  or  if  the  day 
starts  fair  and  rapidly  "clouds  up,"  we  are  told  that  the 
rain  is  certain  to  arrive,  and  most  of  us  have  come  by 
experience  to  believe  the  saying.  Connected  with 
this  bit  of  weather  lore,  of  course,  is  the  familiar  rhyme: 

Rainbow  in  the  morning, 
Sailors  take  warning; 
Rainbow  at  night, 
Sailors  delight; 
Rainbow  at  noon, 
Rain  very  soon. 

Another  early  morning  sign  to  look  for  is  the  action 
of  the  cattle.  If  they  lie  down  as  soon  as  they  are 
turned  out  to  pasture,  they  are  supposed  to  feel 
rheumatic  weariness  in  their  bones,  like  the  old  folk, 
due  to  an  approaching  storm.  However,  this  supersti- 
tion about  the  cattle  is  not  confined  alone  to  their 
early  morning  actions.  If  at  any  time  of  the  day 
the  cows  are  seen  lying  down  some  one  is  sure  to  say : 
"It's  going  to  rain."  But  the  true  weather  prophets 


Some  naked  tree  stands  out  in  startling,  lacy  silhouette 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  209 

know  that  only  in  the  early  hours  of  the  day  is  the 
sign  significant. 

(Parenthetically,  we  might  suggest  that  a  delightful 
essay  is  yet  to  be  written  on  Bones  as  a  Barometer. 
Almost  every  family  has  at  least  one  member  who  feels 
the  coming  of  bad  weather  "in  his  bones,"  the  fact  that 
rheumatism  is  now  known  to  be  a  muscular  complaint 
having  no  effect  on  the  hallowed  phraseology.  And 
in  my  boyhood  there  was  not  a  village  so  small  but  it 
boasted  a  veteran  whose  honourable  bullet  wound 
throbbed  at  the  approach  of  a  storm.) 

During  the  day  there  are  a  thousand  signs  to  ob- 
serve, if  you  are  wise  in  weather  lore,  quite  too  numer- 
ous to  mention  here.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  whirl- 
wind, a  little  spiral  of  dust  and  dry  leaves,  which  so 
often  springs  up  mysteriously  and  goes  waltzing  across 
a  road  or  a  field.  If  it  revolves  from  right  to  left  the 
weather  will  continue  fair,  but  if  it  revolves  the  other 
way  rain  will  soon  follow.  Then,  too,  if  you  see  the 
sheep  feeding  more  eagerly  than  usual,  look  out  for 
rain,  or  if  the  frogs  are  jumping  with  unwonted  liveli- 
ness in  the  meadows.  If  the  chimney  swallows  flock 
high  and  dart  about  excitedly,  watch  for  thunder  show- 
ers or  high  wind,  while  if  the  barn  swallows  fly  very 
low,  rain  is  coming.  If  it  is  already  raining,  watch  the 
chickens.  If  they  stay  under  cover  the  storm  will  not 
last  long.  If,  however,  they  go  out  into  the  yard  or 
runway,  in  spite  of  the  wetting,  the  storm  may  be 


210    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

expected  to  continue  for  some  time.  Evidently  the 
theory  here  is  that  they  say  to  themselves:  "Oh,  what's 
the  use?  It's  going  to  last  all  day" — and  plunge  out 
into  the  rain. 

The  heavens,  too,  must  be  constantly  observed. 
Select  a  single  cloud  for  observation,  and  if  it  grows 
larger,  that  is  a  bad  sign.  If  it  diminishes,  fair  weather 
may  be  expected.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  very  sus- 
picious if  the  sky  is  absolutely  cloudless  all  day.  (Per- 
haps there  is  a  hint  of  Puritan  pessimism  in  this  be- 
lief; nothing  so  perfect  can  long  endure  in  this  vale  of 
tears!)  Again,  watch  the  direction  the  clouds  are 
taking,  or  keep  an  eye  on  the  vane,  and  if  the  wind  is 
backing  around  into  the  fair  weather,  quarter  don't 
let  it  deceive  you.  It  has  to  go  around  into  the  west 
by  the  full  route  before  fair  weather  can  be  hoped  for. 

When  sunset  comes,  the  summer  boarders  go  out 
on  the  pasture  knoll  to  rhapsodize,  the  farmer  scans  the 
west  carefully  to  predict  therefrom  to-morrow's  weather. 
A  red  sun  ball  means  a  hot  day  coming.  If  the  wester- 
ing sun  is  "drawing  water,"  look  out  for  rain.  Draw- 
ing water,  perhaps  we  should  explain,  is  the  Yankee 
phrase  to  describe  the  shining  of  the  sun  through  dis- 
tant clouds  so  that  it  sends  down  fanlike  ribs  of  light 
toward  the  horizon.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a  bad 
sign  in  general  if  the  sun  sets  in  a  cloud.  Certain 
other  sunsets  are  portentous  of  cold,  perhaps  because 
they  look  so  cold.  It  is  chiefly  in  Winter  that  the  sun 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  211 

sinks  through  a  belt  of  pure,  cool  amber,  leaving  a  still 
cooler  green  above  which  melts  into  the  night  sky. 
Against  this  western  light  some  naked  tree  will  stand 
out  in  startling,  lacy,  silhouette,  disclosing  all  the  in- 
tricate beauty  of  its  limbs  but  looking  chill  enough  the 
while.  Such  a  sunset,  for  all  its  loveliness,  makes  us 
turn  gratefully  to  the  red  window  squares  in  the  house 
behind  and  sniff  the  pungent  smell  of  wood  smoke 
from  the  chimney.  In  Autumn,  and  more  rarely  in 
Summer,  when  we  see  such  a  sunset  we  exclaim:  "It's 
going  to  be  a  cold  day  to-morrow!" — and  generally 
it  is. 

After  sunset,  the  stars,  as  well  as  the  moon,  may 
still  tell  you  something  of  the  weather.  A  neighbour 
of  mine  who  used  to  be  an  almost  unerring  weather 
prophet — till  he  began  taking  the  Federal  weather  map 
and  tried  to  predict  scientifically,  since  when  he  has 
been  flagrantly  unreliable  and  has  lost  his  former  de- 
lightful assurance — used  to  startle  me  sometimes  on  a 
vivid,  starry  night  by  gazing  up  into  the  spangled  sky, 
through  an  opening  between  our  elms,  and  wisely 
affirming  that  to-morrow  the  wind  would  be  southeast 
(a  southeast  wind  meaning  rain).  Time  after  time  his 
prophecy  was  fulfilled,  to  my  admiration  and  wonder. 
Finally  he  let  me  into  the  secret.  He  always  made  the 
prediction  when  the  southeast  branch  of  the  milky  way 
could  be  plainly  seen,  in  its  great  downward  swoop. 
After  all,  then,  his  lore  was  the  same  as  the  common 


212    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

saying  that  a  day  of  unusual  atmospheric  clarity 
means  foul  weather  ahead,  for  our  rainstorms  come  so 
generally  from  the  southeast  that  he  was  nearly  always 
safe  in  his  boastful  little  flourish  about  the  direction 
of  the  wind,  put  on  to  increase  my  admiration.  The 
weather  sharps  in  old  South  County,  Rhode  Island, 
have  a  similarly  mysterious  method  of  prediction. 
Looking  out  across  the  blue  water  to  the  line  where  it 
meets  the  paler  sky,  on  a  brilliant,  cloudless  day,  they 
mournfully  predict  rain,  and  shake  their  heads  when 
you  ask  for  an  explanation.  The  prediction  is  always 
based,  however,  on  the  fact  that  Block  Island  can  be 
seen  with  unusual  distinctness.  I  don't  know  what  the 
percentage  of  error  is,  but  many  Summers  have  taught 
me  that  it  is  extremely  low. 

Old  South  County !  The  mere  name  calls  to  my  mind 
the  pictures  of  wide  horizons  and  a  great,  blue,  doming 
sky,  an  "inverted  bowl "  so  spacious  that  not  even  Omar 
could  feel  "cooped"  or  compelled  to  "crawl"  beneath 
it,  and  out  over  the  sea  to  the  eastward,  in  the  level  light 
of  afternoon,  cloud  ships  of  pearl  and  sea-shell  pink  rid- 
ing peacefully  at  anchor.  How  good  it  is  for  the  soul  to 
look  into  those  deep-sea  spaces,  those  leagues  of  upper 
air!  How  good  it  is  for  the  soul  to  look  out  into  the 
open,  anywhere,  when  the  world  is  still  and  the  heavens 
imminent  and  familiar!  I  love  to  go  out  to  a  point  of 
vantage  in  our  mountain  valley  and  watch  the  snow- 
storm coming,  wiping  out  the  distant  summits  first  with 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  213 

its  great  white  battle  smoke,  the  upper  edges  of  its 
clouds  feathery  and  vague  so  that  they  melt  in  to  the  silver 
gray  sky,  and  then  pushing  on  to  our  nearer  peaks, 
and  finally  sweeping  down  upon  us  and  hurling  in  our 
faces  the  first  cool,  stinging  shot  of  its  beneficent  shrap- 
nel. I  love  to  watch  some  great  thunderhead,  dark  as 
a  cannon's  mouth,  mass  behind  a  steep,  wooded  moun- 
tain wall,  a  cloud  with  an  ominous  glitter  in  its  sharply 
defined  edges,  edges  so  sharp  at  first  that  they  would 
seem  almost  cut  out  of  sheet  metal  and  laid  against  the 
blue  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  we  are  aware  of  the  im- 
mense aerial  perspective  behind  them,  between  the 
thunderhead  and  the  roof  of  the  sky.  Against  such  a 
cloud  an  ancient  white  birch  will  often  stand  out  with 
startling  distinctness,  like  a  white  lightning  stab.  The 
vast  mass  seems  to  swell  and  grow  from  within  itself. 
The  ominously  glittering  rim  moves  up  toward  the  sun, 
crosses  it,  wipes  half  the  light  off  the  landscape;  and  then 
suddenly,  from  the  underside,  comes  the  white  mist  of 
the  rain,  obliterates  the  distant  mountains,  walks  down 
their  slopes,  marches  up  the  valley,  and  we  dash  for 
shelter,  getting  under  the  cover  of  veranda  or  barn,  per- 
haps, just  as  the  great  drops  hit  the  drive,  kicking  up 
little  puffs  of  dust. 

I  love — and  only  too  well,  I  fear — to  sit  in  my  garden 
summer  house,  forgetful  of  the  task  before  me,  and  gaze 
out  on  a  summer  day  over  the  beds  where  the  bees  are 
busy  in  the  blue  veronica  and  the  goldfinches  are  sway- 


214    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

ing  in  the  cosmos,  to  the  doming  hardwoods  on  the  hill 
beyond,  which  throw  their  leafy  outlines  against  the 
lower  slopes  of  vast  mountain  ranges,  mighty  Hima- 
layas robed  in  eternal  snow  but  with  no  terror  in  their 
billowy  ravines — the  ethereal  heights  of  the  cumuli.  A 
great,  snowy,  pink-tipped  cumulus  cloud  above  a  dom- 
ing green  hill,  rising  into  the  blue  of  the  summer  sky,  the 
hum  of  bees,  the  scent  of  flowers,  and  far  off,  perhaps, 
the  sweet  shrill  of  children  at  play — who  for  such  a  pic- 
ture would  not  neglect  his  work?  Who,  indeed,  but 
would  let  even  his  imagination  grow  languid,  and  if 
Hamlet  were  to  say:  "It  is  very  like  a  camel,"  would  re- 
ply: "By  the  mass,  and  'tis  like  a  camel,  indeed";  and 
when  he  said:  "Or  like  a  whale?"  would  answer  quite  as 
cheerfully:  "Very  like  a  whale."  After  all,  camel  or 
whale  or  Mount  Everest — what  does  it  matter?  It  is  a 
great  white  cloud  on  a  summer  day ! 

But  it  is  when  we  leave  the  city  abruptly,  where  we 
have  scarcely  been  aware  of  moon  or  stars,  sunsets  or 
sunrisings,  and  go  into  camp,  perhaps,  on  the  shore  of 
some  forest  lake,  or  on  the  shoulder  of  a  mountain,  that 
we  become  most  startlingly  aware  of  the  importance  of 
the  weather  and  the  beauty  and  familiarity  of  the  sky. 
What  camper  rising  in  the  night  to  poke  a  dying  fire, 
or  waking  on  the  ground  with  unaccustomed  aches,  has 
not  looked  up  in  sudden  astonishment  to  the  vault  of 
stars,  amazed  at  their  number  and  aware,  too,  with  a 
strange,  new  sensitiveness,  that  they  are  shedding  a 


WEATHER  AND  THE  SKY  215 

perceptible  radiance  around  him  which  he  had  never 
detected  on  his  electrically  illumined  pavements? 
What  camper  on  the  mountain  side,  as  he  turned  over  on 
his  back  and  looked  up,  nothing  in  his  field  of  vision  but 
the  spire  of  a  stunted  spruce  and  the  great  garden  of  the 
stars,  has  failed  to  sense  with  something  akin  to  awe  the 
eastward  swing  of  the  earth  ball,  a  sense  so  sharp  some- 
times that  all  the  stars  seem  the  torches  of  a  great  pro- 
cession marching  by  the  other  way,  far  aloft  in  the  mid- 
night? It  is  at  such  moments  that  the  little  cares  and 
perplexities  and  ambitions  of  our  human  life  seem  most 
to  fall  away,  to  shrink  into  insignificance,  and  we  feel 
new  springs  of  power  pouring  in  from  the  silent  places; 
or,  at  the  very  least,  we  wonder  if,  after  all,  the  life 
which  is  lived  close  to  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  waters 
and  mountains,  however  lowly  it  may  be,  does  not  hold 
something  we  have  lost  in  our  hurry,  our  herding,  our 
unrest.  It  is  well  thus  to  sit  in  humbleness  now  and 
again  at  the  feet  of  Orion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
OLD  BOATS 

ANYTHING  which  man  has  hewn  from  stone  or 
shaped  from  wood,  put  to  the  uses  of  his  pleasure 
or  his  toil,  and  then  at  length  abandoned  to  crum- 
ble slowly  back  into  its  elements  of  soil  or  metal,  is 
fraught  for  the  beholder  with  a  wistful  appeal,  whether 
it  be  the  pyramids  of  Egyptian  kings,  or  an  abandoned 
farmhouse  on  the  road  to  Moosilauke,  or  only  a  rusty 
hay-rake  in  a  field  now  overgrown  with  golden-rod  and 
Queen  Anne's  lace,  and  fast  surrendering  to  the  return- 
ing tide  of  the  forest.  A  pyramid  may  thrill  us  by  its 
tremendousness;  we  may  dream  how  once  the  legions 
of  Mark  Antony  encamped  below  it,  how  the  eagles  of 
Napoleon  went  tossing  past.  But  in  the  end  we  shall 
reflect  on  the  toiling  slaves  who  built  it,  block  upon 
heavy  block,  to  be  a  monarch's  tomb,  and  on  the  mon- 
arch who  now  lies  beneath  (if  his  mummy  has  not  been 
transferred  to  the  British  Museum).  The  old  gray 
house  by  the  roadside,  abandoned,  desolate,  with  a 
bittersweet  vine  entwined  around  the  chimney  and  a 
raspberry  bush  pushing  up  through  the  rotted  doorsill, 

216 


OLD  BOATS  217 

takes  us  back  to  the  days  when  the  pioneer's  axe  rang 
in  this  clearing,  hewing  the  timbers  for  beam  and  rafter, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  first  fire  went  up  that  ample  flue. 
How  many  a  time  have  I  paused  in  my  tramping  to 
poke  around  such  a  ruin,  reconstructing  the  vanished 
life  of  a  day  when  the  cities  had  not  sucked  our  hill 
towns  dry  and  this  scrubby  wilderness  was  a  productive 
farm! 

The  motor  cars  go  through  the  Berkshires  in  steady 
procession  by  the  valley  highways,  past  great  estates 
betokening  our  changed  civilization.  But  the  back 
roads  of  Berkshire  are  known  to  few,  and  you  may 
tramp  all  the  morning  over  the  Beartown  Mountain 
plateau,  by  a  road  where  the  green  grass  grows  between 
the  ruts,  without  meeting  a  motor,  or,  indeed,  a  vehicle 
of  any  sort.  A  century  ago  Beartown  was  a  thriving 
community,  producing  many  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
grain,  maple  sugar,  wool,  and  mutton.  To-day  there  are 
less  than  half  a  dozen  families  left,  and  they  survive  by 
cutting  cord  wood  from  the  sheep  pastures!  We  must 
haul  our  wool  from  the  Argentine,  and  our  mutton  from 
Montana,  while  our  own  land  goes  back  to  unproductive 
wilderness.  As  the  road  draws  near  the  long  hill  down 
into  Monterey,  there  stands  a  ruined  house  beside  it, 
one  of  linany  ruins  you  will  have  passed,  the  plaster 
in  heaps  on  the  floor,  the  windows  gone,  the  door  half 
fallen  from  its  long,  hand-wrought  hinges.  It  is  a  house 
built  around  a  huge  central  chimney,  which  seems  still 


218    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

as  solid  as  on  the  day  it  was  completed.  The  rotted  man- 
tels were  simply  wrought,  but  with  perfect  lines,  and  the 
panelling  above  them  was  extremely  good.  So  was  the 
delicate  fanlight  over  the  door,  in  which  a  bit  of  glass 
still  clings,  iridescent  now  like  oil  on  water.  Under  the 
eaves  the  carpenter  had  indulged  in  a  Greek  border,  and 
over  the  woodshed  opening  behind  he  had  spanned  a 
keystone  arch.  Peering  into  this  shed,  under  the  collaps- 
ing roof,  you  see  what  is  left  of  an  axe  embedded  in  a 
pile  of  reddish  vegetable  mould,  which  was  once  the 
chopping  block.  Peering  through  the  windows  of  the 
house,  you  see  a  few  bits  of  simple  furniture  still  in- 
habiting the  ruined  rooms.  Just  outside,  in  the  door- 
yard,  the  day  lilies,  run  wild  in  the  grass,  speak  to  you  of 
a  housewife's  hand  across  the  vanished  years.  The 
barn  has  gone  completely,  overthrown  and  wiped  out  by 
the  advancing  forest  edge.  Enough  of  the  clearing  still 
remains,  however,  to  show  where  the  cornfields  and  the 
pastures  lay.  They  are  wild  with  berry  stalks  and 
flowers  now,  still  and  vacant  under  the  Summer  sun. 

The  ruins  of  war  are  melancholy,  and  raise  our  bitter 
resentment.  Yet  how  often  we  pass  such  an  abandoned 
farm  as  this  without  any  realization  that  it,  too,  is  a  ruin 
of  war,  the  ceaseless  war  of  commercial  greed.  No  less 
surely  than  in  stricken  Belgium  has  there  been  a  depor- 
tation here.  Factories  and  cities  have  swallowed  up  a 
whole  population,  indeed,  along  the  Beartown  road. 
It  is  easy  to  say  that  they  went  willingly,  that  they  pre- 


OLD  BOATS  219 

f erred  the  life  of  cities;  that  the  dreary  tenement  under 
factory  grime,  with  a  "movie"  theatre  around  the 
corner,  is  an  acceptable  substitute  to  them  for  the  ample 
fireplaces,  the  fanlight  door,  the  rolling  fields  and  road- 
side brook.  We  hear  much  discussion  in  New  England 
to-day  of  "how  to  keep  the  young  folks  on  the  farm." 
But  why  should  they  stay  on  the  farm,  to  toil  and  starve, 
in  body  and  mind?  We  have  so  organized  our  whole 
society  on  a  competitive  commercial  basis  that  they 
can  now  do  nothing  else.  Those  ancient  apple  trees  be- 
side the  ruined  house  once  grew  fruit  superior  in  taste  to 
any  apple  which  ever  came  from  Hood  River  or  Wenat- 
chee,  and  could  grow  it  again;  but  greed  has  determined 
that  our  cities  shall  pay  five  cents  apiece  for  the  showy 
western  product,  and  the  small  individual  grower  of  the 
East  is  helpless.  We  have  raised  individualism  to  a 
creed,  and  killed  the  individual.  We  have  exalted 
"business,"  and  depopulated  our  farms.  The  old  gray 
ruin  on  the  back  road  to  Monterey  is  an  epitome  of  our 
history  for  a  hundred  years. 

But  to  pursue  such  reflections  too  curiously  would 
take  our  mind  from  the  road,  our  eyes  from  the  wild 
flower  gardens  lining  the  way — the  banks  of  blueberries 
fragrant  in  the  sun,  the  stately  borders  of  meadow  rue 
where  the  grassy  track  dips  down  through  a  moist  hol- 
low. And  to  pursue  such  reflections  too  curiously 
would  take  us  far  afield  from  the  spot  we  planned  to 
reach  when  we  took  up  our  pen  for  this  particular 


220    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

journey.  That  spot  was  the  bit  of  sandy  lane,  just  in 
front  of  Cap'n  Bradley 's  house  in  old  South  County, 
Rhode  Island.  The  lane  leads  down  from  the  colonial 
Post  Road  to  the  shore  of  the  Salt  Pond,  and  the 
Cap'n's  house  is  the  first  one  on  the  left  after  you  leave 
the  road.  The  second  house  on  the  left  is  inhabited  by 
Miss  Maria  Mills.  The  third  house  on  the  left  is  the 
Big  House,  where  they  take  boarders.  The  Big  House 
is  on  the  shore  of  the  Salt  Pond.  There  are  no  houses  on 
the  right  of  the  lane,  only  fields  full  of  bay  and  huckle- 
berries. The  lane  runs  right  out  on  a  small  pier  and 
apparently  jumps  off  the  end  into  whatever  boat  is 
moored  there,  where  it  hides  away  in  the  hold,  waiting 
to  be  taken  on  a  far  journey  to  the  yellow  line  of  the 
ocean  beach,  or  the  flag-marked  reaches  of  the  oyster 
bars.  It  is  a  delightful,  leisurely  little  lane,  a  by- 
way into  another  order  from  the  modernized  macadam 
Post  Road  where  the  motors  whiz.  You  go  down  a 
slight  incline  to  the  Cap'n's  house,  and  the  motors  are 
shut  out  from  your  vision.  From  here  you  can  glimpse 
the  dancing  water  of  the  Salt  Pond,  and  smell  it,  too, 
when  the  wind  is  south,  carrying  the  odour  of  gasolene 
the  other  way.  The  Cap'n's  house  is  painted  brown, 
a  little,  brown  dwelling  with  blue-legged  sailor  men  on 
poles  in  the  dooryard,  revolving  in  the  breeze.  The 
Cap'n  is  a  little  brown  man,  for  that  matter.  He  is  rec- 
onciled to  a  life  ashore  by  his  pipe  and  his  pension,  and 
by  his  lookout  built  of  weathered  timber  on  a  grass- 


OLD  BOATS  221 

covered  sand  drift  just  abaft  the  kitchen  door,  whither 
he  betakes  himself  with  his  spy  glass  on  clear  days  to  see 
whether  it  is  his  old  friend  Cap'n  Perry  down  there  on 
number  two  oyster  bar,  or  how  heavy  the  traffic  is  to- 
day far  out  beyond  the  yellow  beach  line,  where  Block 
Island  rises  like  a  blue  mirage. 

Cap'n  Bradley  boasts  a  garden,  too.  It  is  just  across 
the  lane  from  his  front  door.  There  are  three  varieties 
of  flowers  in  it — nasturtiums,  portulacas,  and  bright  red 
geraniums.  The  portulacas  grow  around  the  border, 
then  come  the  nasturtiums,  and  finally  the  taller  gerani- 
ums in  the  centre.  The  Cap'n  has  never  seen  nor  heard  of 
those  ridiculous  wooden  birds  on  green  shafts  which  it 
is  now  the  fashion  to  stick  up  in  flower  beds,  but  he  has 
something  quite  appropriate,  and,  all  things  considered, 
quite  as  "artistic."  In  the  bow  of  his  garden,  astride  a 
spar,  is  a  blue-legged  sailor  man  ten  inches  tall,  keeping 
perpetual  lookout  up  the  lane.  For  this  flower  bed  is 
planted  in  an  old  dory  filled  with  earth.  She  had  out- 
lived her  usefulness  down  there  in  the  Salt  Pond,  or 
even,  it  may  be,  out  on  the  blue  sea  itself,  but  no  vandal 
hands  were  laid  upon  her  to  stave  her  up  for  kindling 
wood.  Instead,  the  Captain  himself  painted  her  a 
bright  yellow,  set  her  down  in  front  of  his  dwelling,  and 
filled  her  full  of  flowers.  She  is  disintegrating  slowly; 
already,  after  a  rain,  the  muddy  water  trickles  through 
her  sides  and  stains  the  yellow  paint.  But  what  a 
pretty  and  peaceful  process !  She  might  not  strike  you 


222    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

as  a  happy  touch  set  down  in  one  of  those  formal 
gardens  depicted  in  The  House  Beautiful  or  Country 
Lifey  but  here  beside  the  salty  lane  past  Cap'n 
Bradley's  door,  gaudy  in  colour,  with  her  load  of 
homely  flowers  and  her  quaint  little  sailor  man  astride 
his  spar  above  the  bright  geraniums,  she  is  perfect. 
No  boat  could  come  to  a  better  end.  She's  taking 
portulacas  to  the  Islands  of  the  Blest! 

Miss  Maria  Mills,  in  the  next  house,  never  followed 
the  sea,  and  her  idea  of  a  garden  is  more  conventional. 
She  grows  hollyhocks  beside  the  house,  and  sweet  peas 
on  her  wire  fence.  But  at  the  lane's  end,  where  the 
water  of  the  Salt  Pond  laps  the  pier,  you  may  see  another 
old  boat  put  to  humbler  uses,  now  that  its  seafaring 
days  are  over,  and  uses  sometimes  no  less  romantic 
than  the  Cap'n's  garden.  It  is  a  flat-bottomed  boat, 
and  lies  bottom  side  up  just  above  the  little  beach  made 
by  the  lap  of  the  waves,  for  the  tide  does  not  affect  the 
Salt  Pond  back  here  three  miles  from  the  outlet.  The 
paint  has  nearly  gone  from  this  aged  craft,  though  a 
few  flakes  of  green  still  cling  under  the  gunwales.  But 
in  place  of  paint  there  have  appeared  an  incredible 
number  of  initials,  carved  with  every  degree  of  skill  or 
clumsiness,  over  bottom  and  sides.  This  boat  is  the 
bench  whereon  you  wait  for  the  launch  to  carry  you 
down  the  Pond,  for  the  catboat  or  thirty-footer  to  be 
brought  in  from  her  moorings,  for  Cap'n  Perry  to  land 
with  a  load  of  oysters;  or  it  is  the  bench  you  sit  upon  to 


OLD  BOATS  223 

watch  the  sunset  glow  behind  the  pines  on  the  opposite 
headland,  the  pines  where  the  blue  herons  roost,  or  to 
see  the  moon  track  on  the  dancing  water.  The  Post 
Road  is  alive  with  motors  now,  far  into  the  evening. 
You  get  your  mail  from  the  little  post  office  beside  it  as 
quickly  as  possible — which  isn't  very  quickly,  to  be 
sure,  for  we  do  not  hurry  in  South  County,  even  when 
we  are  employed  by  Uncle  Sam — and  then  you  turn 
down  the  quiet  lane,  past  the  Cap'n's  garden,  toward  the 
lap  of  quiet  water  and  the  salty  smell.  Affairs  of  State 
are  now  discussed,  of  a  summer  evening,  upon  the  bot- 
tom of  this  upturned  boat,  while  a  case  knife  dulled  by 
oyster  shells  picks  out  a  new  initial.  And  when  the  fate 
of  the  nation  is  settled,  or  to-morrow's  weather  thor- 
oughly discussed  (the  two  are  of  about  equal  importance 
to  us  in  South  County,  with  the  balance  in  favour  of  the 
weather),  and  the  debaters  have  departed  to  bed,  some 
of  them  leaving  by  water  with  a  rattle  of  tackle  or,  more 
often  in  these  degenerate  days,  the  put,  put  of  an  un- 
muffled  exhaust,  then  other  figures  come  to  the  upturned 
boat,  speaking  softly  or  not  at  all,  and  in  the  morning 
you  may,  perhaps,  find  double  initials  freshly  cut,  with  a 
circle  sentimentally  enclosing  them.  So  the  old  craft 
passes  her  last  days  beside  the  lapping  water,  a  pleasant 
and  a  useful  end. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Big  House  from  the  pier, 
at  the  head  of  a  tiny  dredged  inlet,  there  is  an  old  boat- 
house.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  we  used  to  warp 


224    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  Idler  in  there  when  summer  was  over,  get  the 
chains  under  her,  and  block  her  up  for  the  winter. 
She  spent  the  winter  on  one  side  of  the  slip;  the  Sea 
Mist,  a  clumsy  craft  that  couldn't  stir  short  of  a  half 
gale,  spent  the  winter  on  the  other  side.  Over  them, 
on  racks,  the  rowboats  were  slung.  There  was  a  larger 
boathouse  for  the  big  fellows.  What  busy  days  we 
spent  in  May  or  June,  caulking  and  scraping  and  paint- 
ing, splicing  and  repairing,  making  the  little  Idler 
ready  for  the  sea  again!  She  was  an  eighteen-foot 
cat,  a  bit  of  a  tub,  I  fear,  but  the  best  on  the  Pond  in 
her  day,  eating  up  close  into  the  wind,  sensitive,  alert, 
with  a  pair  of  white  heels  she  had  shown  to  many  a 
larger  craft.  Surely  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I 
rowed  out  to  her  where  she  was  moored  a  hundred 
feet  from  shore,  climbed  aboard,  hoisted  sail,  and,  with 
my  pipe  drawing  sweetly,  sat  down  beside  the  tiller  and 
played  out  the  sheet  till  the  sail  filled,  there  was  a  crack 
and  snaffle  of  straining  tackle,  the  boat  leaped  for- 
ward, the  tiller  batted  my  ribs,  the  Idler  heeled  over, 
and  then  quietly,  softly,  as  rhythmic  as  a  song,  the 
water  raced  hissing  along  her  rail,  the  little  waves 
slapped  beneath  her  bow — and  the  world  was  good  to 
be  alive  in!  Surely  it  was  but  yesterday  that  the 
white  sail  of  the  Idler  was  like  a  gull's  wing  on  the 
Pond! 

But  the  white  sail  wings  are  few  on  the  Pond  to-day, 
and  the  Idler  lies  on  her  side  in  the  weeds  behind  the 


OLD  BOATS  225 

boathouse.  She  had  to  make  room  for  the  motor 
craft.  She  is  too  bulky  for  a  flower  bed,  too  convex 
for  a  bench.  Her  paint  is  nearly  gone  now,  both  the 
yellow  body  colour  and  the  pretty  green  and  white 
stripe  along  her  rail  that  we  used  to  put  on  with  such 
care.  Her  seams  are  yawning,  and  the  rain  water 
pool  that  at  first  settled  on  the  low  side  of  her  cockpit 
has  now  seeped  through,  and  a  little  deposit  of  soil 
has  accumulated,  in  which  a  sickly  weed  is  growing. 
Poor  old  Idler  !  One  day  I  got  an  axe,  resolved  to 
break  her  up,  but  when  it  came  to  the  point  of  burying 
the  first  blow  my  resolution  failed.  I  thought  of  all 
the  hours  of  enthusiastic  labour  I  had  spent  upon  those 
eighteen  feet  of  oak  ribs  and  planking;  I  thought 
of  all  the  thrilling  hours  of  the  race,  when  we  had 
squeezed  her  into  the  wind  past  Perry's  Point  and 
saved  a  precious  tack;  I  thought  of  the  dreamy  hours 
when  she  had  borne  us  down  the  Pond  in  the  summer 
sunshine,  or  through  the  gray,  mysterious  fog,  or 
under  the  stars  above  the  black  water.  So,  instead,  I 
laid  my  hand  gently  on  her  rotting  tiller,  and  then 
took  the  axe  back  to  the  woodshed.  She  will  never  ride 
the  waves  again,  but  she  shall  dissolve  into  her  ele- 
ments peacefully,  in  sight  of  the  salt  water,  in  the 
quiet  grass  behind  the  boathouse. 

It  seems  to  me  that  all  my  life  I  have  had  memories 
of  old  boats.  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  Old 
Ironsides.,  in  the  Charlestown  Navy  Yard,  dismantled 


226    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

and  decked  over,  but  saved  from  destruction  by  Dr. 
Holmes's  poem.  What  thrilling  visions  it  awoke  to 
climb  aboard  her  and  tread  her  decks!  Acres  of  spin- 
naker and  topgallants  broke  out  aloft,  cannon  boomed, 
smoke  rolled,  "grape  and  cannister"  flew  through  the 
air,  chain  shot  came  hurtling,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
waved  through  it  all,  triumphant.  The  white  iron- 
clads out  in  the  channel  (for  in  those  days  they  were 
white)  evoked  no  such  visions.  Another  memory  is  of 
a  childhood  trip  to  New  Bedford  and  a  long  walk  for 
hours  by  the  water  front,  out  on  green  and  rotting 
piers  where  chunky,  square-rigged  whalers,  green  and 
rotting,  too,  were  moored  alongside.  The  life  of  the 
whaler  was  in  those  days  something  infinitely  fascinat- 
ing to  us  boys.  We  read  of  the  chase,  the  hurling  of 
the  harpoon,  the  mad  ride  over  the  waves  towed  by 
the  plunging  monster.  And  here  were  the  very  ships 
which  had  taken  the  brave  whalers  to  the-  hunting 
grounds,  here  on  their  decks  were  some  of  the  whale 
boats  which  had  been  towed  over  the  churned  and 
blood-flecked  sea!  Why  should  they  be  green  and 
rotting  now?  They  produced  upon  me  an  impression 
of  infinite  sadness.  It  seemed  as  if  a  great  hand  had 
suddenly  wiped  a  romantic  bloom  off  my  vision  of  the 
world. 

But  it  was  not  long  after  that  I  knew  the  romance 
of  a  launching.  It  was  at  Kennebunkport  in  Maine. 
All  summer  the  ship  yards  on  either  side  of  the  river. 


OLD  BOATS  227 

close  to  the  little  town  and  under  the  very  shadow 
of  the  white  meeting  house  steeple,  had  rung  with  the 
blows  of  axe  and  hammer.  The  great  ribs  rose  into 
place,  the  sheathing  went  on,  the  decks  were  laid,  the 
masts  stepped;  finally  the  first  rigging  was  adjusted. 
After  the  workmen  left  in  the  late  afternoon,  we  boys 
swarmed  over  the  ships — three-masters,  smelling  de- 
liciously  of  new  wood  and  caulking,  and  played  we  were 
sailors.  When  the  rope  ladders  were  finally  in  place, 
we  raced  up  and  down  them,  sitting  in  the  crow's  nest 
on  a  line  with  the  church  weather  vane,  and  pretending 
to  reef  the  sails.  It  was  an  event  when  the  ships  were 
launched.  The  tide  was  at  the  flood,  gay  canoes 
filled  the  stream  along  both  banks,  hundreds  of  people 
massed  on  the  shore.  A  little  girl  stood  in  the  bow  with 
a  bottle  of  wine  on  a  string.  An  engine  tooted,  cables 
creaked,  and  down  the  greased  ways  slid  the  ship, 
with  a  dip  and  a  heave  when  she  hit  the  water  that 
made  big  waves  on  either  side  and  set  the  canoes  to 
rocking  madly,  while  the  crowd  cheered  and  shouted. 
After  the  launching,  the  schooners  were  towed  out  to 
sea,  and  down  the  coast,  to  be  fitted  elsewhere.  We 
boys  followed  them  in  canoes  as  far  as  the  breakwater, 
and  watched  them  disappear.  Soon  their  sails  would 
be  set,  and  they  would  join  the  white  adventurers  out 
there  on  the  world  rim. 

Where  are  they   now,   I  wonder?    Are  they   still 
buffeting  the  seas,  or  do  they  lie  moored  and  outmoded 


228    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

beside  some  green  wharf,  their  days  of  usefulness  over? 
I  remember  hoping,  as  I  watched  them  pass  out  to 
sea,  that  they  would  not  share  the  fate  of  the  unknown 
craft  which  lay  buried  in  the  sands  a  mile  down  the 
coast.  It  was  said  that  she  came  ashore  in  the  "Great 
Storm"  of  1814  (or  thereabouts).  Nothing  was  left 
of  her  in  our  day  but  her  sturdy  ribs,  which  thrust  up  a 
few  feet  above  the  sand,  outlining  her  shape,  and  were 
only  visible  at  low  water.  On  a  stormy  day,  when  the 
seas  were  high,  I  used  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the 
beach  and  try  to  picture  how  she  drove  up  on  the 
shore,  shuddering  deliciously  as  each  great  wave  came 
pounding  down  on  all  that  was  left  of  her  oaken  frame. 
When  I  read  in  the  newspaper  of  a  wreck  I  thought  of 
her,  and  I  think  of  her  to  this  day  on  such  occasions, 
thrusting  up  black  and  dripping  ribs  above  the  wet 
sands  at  low  water,  or  vanishing  beneath  the  pounding 
foam  of  the  breakers. 

If  you  take  the  shore  line  train  from  Boston  to  New 
York,  you  pass  through  a  sleepy  old  town  in  Connecti- 
cut where  a  spur  track  with  rusty  rails  runs  out  to  the 
wharves,  and  moored  to  these  wharves  are  side-wheel 
steamers  which  once  plied  the  Sound.  It  served 
somebody's  purpose  or  pocket  better  to  discontinue 
the  line,  and  with  its  cessation  and  the  cessation  of 
work  in  the  ship  yards  close  by,  the  old  town  passed 
into  a  state  of  salty  somnolence.  The  harbour  is 
glassy  and  still,  opening  out  to  the  blue  waters  of  the 


OLD  BOATS  229 

> 
Sound.     Still  are  the  white  steamers  by  the  wharves, 

where  once  the  gang  planks  shook  with  the  tread  of 
feet  and  the  rumble  of  baggage  trucks.  Many  a  time, 
as  the  train  paused  at  the  station,  I  have  watched  the 
black  stacks  for  some  hint  of  smoke,  hoping  against 
hope  that  I  should  see  the  old  ship  move,  and  turn,  and 
go  about  her  rightful  seafaring.  But  it  was  never  to 
be.  There  were  only  ghosts  in  engine  room  and  pilot 
house.  Like  the  abandoned  dwelling  on  the  upland 
road  to  Monterey,  these  steamers  were  mute  witnesses 
to  a  vanished  order.  But  always  as  the  train  pulled 
out  from  the  station  I  sat  on  the  rear  platform  and 
watched  the  white  town  and  the  white  steamers  and 
the  glassy  harbour  slip  backward  into  the  haze — and 
it  seemed  as  if  that  haze  was  the  gentle  breath  of 
oblivion. 

I  live  inland  now,  far  from  the  smell  of  salt  water 
and  the  sight  of  sails.  Yet  sometimes  there  comes 
over  me  a  longing  for  the  sea  as  irresistible  as  the  lust 
for  salt  which  stampedes  the  reindeer  of  the  north. 
I  must  gaze  on  the  unbroken  world-rim,  I  must  feel 
the  sting  of  spray,  I  must  hear  the  rhythmic  crash  and 
roar  of  breakers  and  watch  the  sea-weed  rise  and  fall 
where  the  green  waves  lift  against  the  rocks.  Once  in 
so  often  I  must  ride  those  waves  with  cleated  sheet 
and  tugging  tiller,  and  hear  the  soft  hissing  song  of  the 
water  on  the  rail.  And  "my  day  of  mercy"  is  not  com- 
plete till  I  have  seen  some  old  boat,  her  seafaring  done, 


230    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

heeled  over  on  the  beach  or  amid  the  fragrant  sedges,  a 
mute  and  wistful  witness  to  the  romance  of  the  deep, 
the  blue  and  restless  deep  where  man  has  adventured 
in  craft  his  hands  have  made  since  the  earliest  sun  of 
history,  and  whereon  he  will  adventure,  ardently  and 
insecure,  till  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  LAND  BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK 

OUR  little  northern  river  winds  along  through 
the  Berkshire  intervales,  polluted  with  many  a 
mill  and  sewer  near  its  source,  but  running  clear 
again  when  it  breaks  into  the  country  south  of 
the  Taconics,  a  pretty  stream  when  glimpsed  from 
road  or  railway,  a  binding  thread  for  our  mountain 
landscape,  but  known  aright,  after  all,  only  to  those 
who  launch  boat  or  canoe  upon  it,  who  get  down  into 
the  land  below  the  bank. 

It  is  a  different  world,  this  land  below  the  river  bank, 
with  different  inhabitants,  a  different  quality  of  land- 
scape, a  sense  of  strangeness  perpetually  alluring,  and  a 
sweet,  peaceful  mood  of  languid  solitude.  You  are 
oddly  shut  in  on  the  river,  alike  by  high  banks  and 
bounding  trees,  and  by  your  angle  of  vision,  which  is 
lowered  many  feet  from  the  accustomed.  Thus  you 
gain  an  intimacy  with  your  immediate  surroundings,  a 
friendliness  with  the  landscape,  elsewhere  impossible. 
When  you  leave  your  canoe  at  the  end  of  your  idle 
afternoon  and  climb  the  bank,  the  sense  of  transition  is 
sometimes  almost  startling.  Six  steps  up  from  water- 

231 


232    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

way  to  footway,  and  you  are  in  another  order.  Almost 
you  hear  different  sounds.  Certainly  you  smell  differ- 
ent odours,  see  different  flowers,  and  your  range  of 
vision  expands  to  its  accustomed  horizon.  So  the  land 
below  the  river  bank  forever  retains  its  charm  of  a  shy, 
secluded  personality  that  must  be  sought,  and  one  which 
is  therefore  comparatively  unknown. 

Our  river  twists  and  turns  through  the  rich  sandy 
loam  of  the  flat  Canaan  plains,  running  more  than  ten 
miles  between  two  towns  that  are  but  six  miles  apart 
by  road,  and  dropping  but  eighteen  inches  in  the  entire 
distance.  It  averages,  perhaps,  one  hundred  to  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  across.  You  might  not  suppose, 
to  see  its  quiet  brown  water  mirroring  the  banks,  that  the 
current  would  ever  be  strong  enough  to  alter  the  bed. 
But  in  Spring  the  freshets  come  down  till  the  water 
level  often  rises  six  feet  or  more,  overflowing  the  banks 
and  lopping  off  in  the  course  of  a  few  years  an  acre  on 
one  side  of  a  bend,  to  deposit  it  on  the  other  side  farther 
down  the  stream.  If  land  values  were  higher  in  this 
valley,  there  might  be  pretty  chances  for  litigation !  One 
of  the  first  interests  the  river  awakes  is  this  of  the 
shifting  current. 

The  bottom  meadows,  varying  in  width  from  two  or 
three  miles  to  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  are  flanked 
by  wooded  mountain  walls,  dome  after  dome,  with  here 
and  there  a  pasture  running  up  the  slope  into  the  timber. 
Where  the  meadow  joins  the  high  land  on  either  side  are 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  233 

parallel  roads  down  the  valley,  the  West  Road  and  the 
East  Road,  studded  with  small  gray  farmhouses  and 
large  gray  barns.  From  either  road  you  see  the 
meadows,  now  soft  and  rippling  with  oats,  now  golden 
brown  where  the  hay  has  been  cut,  now  green  with 
pastures,  or  just  gone  wild  and  tinted  with  the  white  of 
Queen  Anne's  lace,  the  primrose  yellow  of  our  Berkshire 
shrubby  cinquefoil  (which  the  farmers  here  wrongly 
call  hardhack),  the  pretty  pink  of  Bouncing  Bet,  and 
at  rare  intervals  the  flame  of  Devil's  paint  brush.  Al- 
ways, through  the  meadows,  you  are  aware  of  the  river, 
its  water  seldom  seen,  but  its  course  clearly  marked  by 
the  winding  procession  of  stately  elms  and  shimmering 
willows.  Strike  off  through  the  meadows  now,  and 
presently,  as  you  draw  nearer  the  stream,  you  see  the 
grayish  brown  half  circle  of  the  exposed  bank,  where  the 
current  has  devoured  a  hundred  yards  of  trees  and  eaten 
on  into  the  cultivated  fields.  Across  from  this  exposed 
bank  is  a  tongue  of  beach,  almost  its  exact  convex, 
though  a  little  sharper,  and  rapidly  growing  up  with 
verdure.  But  it  is  characteristic  of  our  river  that  al- 
most all  such  acute  bends  are  followed  by  one,  two,  or 
three  more.  The  current,  thrown  sharply  off  at  an 
angle,  eats  into  the  shore  at  the  point  to  which  it  is  de- 
flected as  well  as  at  the  point  of  deflection,  and  then 
repeats  the  operation  till  it  has  sometimes  almost 
doubled  on  its  tracks.  From  the  point  where  we 
stand  a  second  exposed  bank  is  visible  beyond  that 


234    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

feathery  pile  of  willows,  and  to  the  left  still  another,  al- 
most as  close  to  us  as  the  first,  so  that  this  tongue  of 
meadow  here  is  like  a  peninsula. 

We  enter  a  canoe — a  canoe  because  it  slips  noiselessly 
through  the  water,  and  can  go  almost  anywhere — and 
examine  the  river  bank  more  closely,  with  quite  a  new 
impression  of  its  size  here  on  the  surface  of  the  water, 
where  it  towers  six  feet  above  us  and  shuts  out  all  but 
the  tops  of  the  mountains.  It  is  composed  of  compact 
layers  of  loamy  sand,  with  here  and  there  a  little  slippery 
clay.  The  constant  erosion  of  the  water  at  freshet  time 
has  hollowed  it  out  beneath  the  surface  soil,  and  the 
grass  and  flowers,  holding  together  the  surface  overhang 
by  tenacious  roots,  curve  out  and  droop  along  the  top 
like  peat  thatching.  Each  Spring  great  chunks  of  this 
overhang  break  away  and  fall  into  the  water,  as  the 
river  continues  to  deepen  the  bend.  Under  this  thatch, 
looking  quaintly  like  a  street  of  Upper  West  Side 
apartment  houses,  are  the  dark  little  holes  of  the  bank 
swallows,  row  after  row  of  them,  neatly  tunnelled  into 
the  damp  brown  earth.  The  swallows  skim  low  over  the 
surrounding  fields,  snapping  up  insects  as  they  fly,  or 
come  home  unerringly  to  their  abodes  and  disappear 
with  a  flutter  of  tail.  The  nests  are  so  exactly  similar 
in  appearance  that  one  marvels  at  the  birds'  discrimina- 
tion. It  is  fortunate,  certainly,  that  sobriety  is  one  of 
their  virtues.  Now  and  then  among  the  swallows'  cliff 
dwellings  is  a  larger  hole,  where  dog  or  woodchuck  or 


235 

predatory   rat   has  burrowed,  hunting,  perhaps,   for 
eggs. 

The  complementary  tongue  of  land  which  is  always 
formed  by  the  river  opposite  one  of  these  concave 
sweeps  of  exposed  bank  is  no  less  interesting.  Close 
to  the  water  it  is  like  a  sand  bar,  forming  an  excellent 
shelving  beach  for  bathing,  and  a  playground  for  the 
sandpipers  and  the  plovers.  You  may  often  come  upon 
a  flock  of  these  birds  on  a  bar,  as  your  canoe  rounds  the 
bend,  running  back  and  forth  and  bobbing  their  heads 
up  and  down.  "Tip  ups,"  some  boys  call  them.  But 
back  a  few  feet  from  the  new  shelf  of  the  bar,  the  re- 
ceding waters  have  deposited  soil  and  seeds,  and  last 
year's  deposit  is  already  rank  and  green  with  swampy 
verdure.  Then  the  willows  begin.  Almost  every  new 
tongue  of  land  has  its  clump  of  willows,  sown  by  the 
sweep  of  the  stream  on  a  curve  as  regular  as  any 
topiary  artist  could  lay  down,  and  trimmed  to  a  uniform 
height.  There  is  one  long  bend  on  our  river,  perhaps 
four  hundred  yards  in  extent,  which  is  not  a  sharp  but  a 
gradual  curve.  The  river  was  evidently  nearly  straight 
at  this  point  a  generation  or  two  ago,  but  something  de- 
flected its  current — perhaps  a  tree  which  fell  into  the 
water  and  piled  up  a  dam  of  roots  and  tangled  flotsam. 
The  current,  swinging  out  from  this  new  obstruction, 
ate  into  the  farther  bank  and  gradually  channelled  a 
great  bend,  depositing  new  land  on  the  eastern  side. 
Along  high -water  mark  on  this  new  land,  following  the 


236    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

new  curve  of  the  channel,  it  planted  a  hedge  of  willow 
possibly  fifteen  years  ago.  That  hedge  is  now  thirty 
feet  high,  as  uniform  along  the  top  as  though  it  were 
annually  trimmed,  and  presenting  an  unbroken  wall  of 
shimmering,  delicate  green  set  on  the  sweeping  curve  of 
the  stream,  with  a  pink  garden  of  Joe-pye-weed  at  its 
feet.  There  is  no  gardener  like  the  river  when  you  give 
him  a  chance! 

The  river  understands  the  art  of  the  border.  In 
Stockbridge  is  a  fine  old  estate  which  has  two  miles  and  a 
half  of  river  front,  though  the  entire  frontage  of  the 
estate  on  the  highway  is  less  than  half  a  mile.  It  used 
to  be  known  as  the  Ox  Bow  Farm.  There  have  been 
many  striking  shrubbery  borders  planted  on  its  drives, 
no  doubt  at  considerable  expense;  but  down  on  one 
of  the  innumerable  bends  of  the  river  bank,  at  the  feet 
of  aged,  stately  willows,  and  visible  only  to  him  who 
voyages  by  boat  or  canoe,  is  the  most  beautiful  border 
of  all.  It  is,  of  course,  on  the  convex  side  of  the  bend. 
The  curve  is  gentle,  and  the  opposite  bank  shows  no 
exposed  soil,  being  exquisitely  draped  with  wild  grape 
vines,  a  little  feathery  clematis,  and  great  masses 
of  wild  balsam  apple  (Echinocystis  lobata)  with  its 
delicate  white  blooms,  its  light  green  foliage,  and  its 
prickly  fruit  gourds.  Some  people  call  it  by  the 
homelier  but  perhaps  more  appropriate  name  of  wild 
cucumber.  Around  the  sweep  beneath  the  great  wil- 
lows, set  close  to  the  water  in  dark,  rich  mould,  is  a  long 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  237 

border  of  the  mild  water  pepper  (Polygonum  hydro- 
piperoides) — that  and  nothing  else.  Its  own  lux- 
uriousness  keeps  out  all  other  weeds  and  alien  flowers. 
The  current  is  the  gardener  who  keeps  the  edge  in  line, 
the  beautiful  sweeping  line  of  the  bend.  There  are  four 
hundred  feet,  perhaps,  of  this  border,  and  it  is  twenty 
feet  thick.  The  pepper  grows  half  as  tall  as  a  man,  a 
graceful  plant  with  lance-shaped  leaves,  and  in  August 
its  level  top  is  a  delicate,  creamy  white,  flushed  with 
pink,  where  the  finger-like  blooms  droop  gracefully 
atop  the  stalks.  No  border  could  be  more  formal  than 
this,  and  yet  none  could  be  more  utterly  artless.  As 
you  drift  by  in  the  low  sun  of  a  summer  afternoon,  hear- 
ing the  insects  hum  in  the  flowers,  seeing  the  white  flash 
of  a  kingfisher  down  the  tree-hung  aisles  of  the  river 
ahead,  listening  to  the  distant  chimes  floating  from  the 
village  tower,  you  know  the  peace  of  gardens  as  you 
scarce  may  ever  know  it  in  a  garden  made  with  hands. 
But  the  shiftings  of  the  river  bed  bring  even  more 
secret  delights.  Often  in  the  course  of  years  an  old 
channel  becomes  closed,  no  sign  of  it  remaining  but  a 
little  break  in  the  bank  and  a  bay  of  still  water  winding 
into  the  woods.  Sometimes  the  current  has  even  laid  a 
sand  bar  completely  across  the  opening,  converting  the 
ancient  bed  into  a  swamp  or  stagnant  pond.  In  some 
parts  of  our  country  these  old  channels  are  known  as 
coves,  in  other  parts  as  swales.  As  your  canoe  drifts 
along  they  tempt  you  from  the  main  stream,  and  they 


238    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

always  repay  any  effort  you  may  expend  pushing 
through  the  reeds  and  lily  pads.  Coming  downstream 
upon  one,  you  might  readily  miss  it,  for  the  sand  bar 
always  noses  a  little  way  across  the  mouth,  even  when 
it  has  not  closed  up  the  bank  completely,  and  so  hides 
it  from  view.  The  mouth  of  the  swale  is  sometimes 
marked  in  our  country,  however,  by  a  sycamore  tree, 
the  white  mottled  bark  shining  out  against  the  land- 
scape. Presumably  the  tree  has  found  security  here, 
where  the  current  no  longer  worries  its  roots,  and  has 
survived.  Stopping  your  craft  before  the  entrance,  you 
look  into  a  cool  green  forest  glade  over  a  carpet  of  lily 
pads,  with  the  golden  blossoms  of  the  cow  lilies  gaily 
gemming  it.  You  are  less  than  mortal  if  this  water 
glade  does  not  tempt  you  to  push  your  canoe  through 
the  leaves — slowly,  secretly,  for  the  stillness  of  the  river 
is  even  deeper  here,  where  the  water  mirror  is  black 
ahead  and  its  oozy  edges  are  odorous  with  sweet  flag. 
The  very  flowers  speak  the  silent  wildness  of  the  place, 
for  here,  if  anywhere,  the  shy  cardinal  flower  makes  a 
red  reflection  on  the  water,  an  incomparable  red  in  this 
dark,  ^hadowy  spot,  and  here  the  purple  loosestrife 
grows  in  such  a  gloom  that  we  understand  at  last  why 
Shakespeare  wrote  that  "our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's 
fingers  call  them . ' '  (To  be  sure,  it  is  disputed  that  Shakes- 
peare did  mean  loosestrife  by  "long  purples."  We 
hasten  to  make  this  admission  before  somebody  hurls 
the  Variorum  "Hamlet"  at  our  head!)  Here,  also,  the 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  239 

yellow  jewel  weed  on  the  higher  ground  is  most  like  an 
orchid,  and  the  blue  vervain — which  is  purple — most  like 
fairy  candelabra;  and  here  is  no  vista  over  the  banks 
to  the  surrounding  hilltops.  The  rank  foliage  forms  a 
solid  wall,  and  arches  like  a  groined  roof  overhead. 
Only  through  the  opening  behind  us  do  we  catch  a  bit 
of  the  river,  glistening  under  the  sun,  as  through  an 
open  door.  This  is  a  chapel  beside  the  river  road,  a 
spot  for  deeper  meditation  on  our  languid  way. 

Here,  too,  as  we  watch  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  we 
see  just  the  ghost  of  a  pickerel  move  like  a  sudden 
lightning  streak  of  shadow  under  the  weeds  that  bear 
his  name,  and  wonder  why  the  boy  whom  we  passed 
upstream  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  bank  does  not  come 
here  to  cast  his  line.  Perhaps  it  is  because  the  small 
boy  loves  the  sense  of  a  procession  in  a  river,  loves  to 
see  the  water  go  by,  to  watch  the  passing  boats,  to  feel 
the  sweep  of  landscape,  almost  as  much  as  (if  less  con- 
sciously than)  he  loves  to  fish.  The  cloistered  spots 
are,  after  all,  for  a  more  contemplative  maturity — 
it  is  only  our  pride  that  prevents  us  from  saying  for 
middle  age.  The  swales  are  beautiful  back  waters,  and 
youth  is  not  yet  satiated  with  midstream. 

The  bird  and  animal  life  of  the  land  below  the  river 
bank  is  a  different  thing,  no  less  than  are  the  flora  and 
the  view.  Two  live  things  stand  out  most  prominently 
in  my  memories  of  our  northern  rivers — kingfishers  and 
turtles,  the  kingfisher  flying  ever  on  ahead  of  the  boat 


240    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

down  the  willow  aisles,  flashing  as  white  sometimes 
as  the  occasional  birches  which  stab  their  reflection 
into  the  dark  water,  the  turtles  plopping  off  logs  as  the 
boat  draws  near,  or  thrusting  out  inquiring  heads  to 
watch  it  pass.  The  proud-crested  kingfisher  is  the 
over-lord  of  our  rivers,  as  the  turkey  buzzard  patrols 
the  red  rivers  of  the  South.  Whether  sitting  high  on  a 
limb  overhanging  the  water,  or  flying  down  the  green 
aisle  ahead,  or  swooping  for  a  fish,  this  beautiful  bird  is 
seldom  absent  from  the  vista  to  give  it  a  characteristic 
.touch.  The  kingfishers,  indeed,  seem  to  have  each 
his  well-defined  river  beat,  and  if  one  bird  encroaches 
on  the  fish  preserves  of  his  neighbour  upstream  there  is 
trouble  at  once.  He  is  driven  back  with  a  great  noise 
and  flutter,  and  as  soon  as  he  is  back  on  his  own  ground 
he  is  just  as  quick  to  turn  and  drive  out  his  neighbour. 
Often  the  kingfisher  will  fly  ahead  of  your  boat,  alight- 
ing on  tree  after  tree,  as  if  afraid  to  pass  you;  but  ulti- 
mately he  will  get  up  courage,  fly  over  your  head,  and 
return  to  the  point  where  you  first  flushed  him.  I  have 
never  known  a  kingfisher  to  continue  with  the  boat  in- 
definitely. Sooner  or  later  they  always  ref.urn,  and 
you  will  often  find  each  bird  at  the  old  spot  when  you 
come  back  upstream. 

Another  bird  characteristic  of  our  northern  waters 
is  the  blue  heron,  which  lives  alike  on  the  rivers  and  by 
the  salt  ponds  making  in  from  the  sea.  The  baby 
herons  attain  a  very  considerable  size  before  they 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK 

essay  locomotion,  and  the  first  waddles  of  one  of  these 
ungainly  birds  are  easily  watched  from  a  considerable 
distance,  and  are  quite  irresistible.  A  mother  and  child 
used  to  come  up  from  the  secluded  banks  of  the  Ham 
Branch  in  Franconia,  and  take  an  early  morning  or 
late  afternoon  stroll  in  the  meadows  in  full  sight  of  the 
cottage  where  we  were  spending  the  summer.  "Here 
come  the  herons!"  was  a  familiar  cry,  which  brought 
us  tumbling  out  upon  the  veranda.  But  it  proved 
useless  to  try  to  walk  up  on  the  birds.  At  first  the 
baby  struggled  back,  at  the  note  of  warning  from  its 
mother,  with  a  great  flapping  of  wings,  into  the  bushes. 
But  in  a  short  time  it  could  fly  as  well  as  she,  and  both 
birds  would  get  up  speed,  swaying  from  side  to  side 
on  their  long,  spidery  legs,  thrusting  out  their  necks  and 
flapping  their  great  wings,  the  very  acme  of  awkward- 
ness, till  suddenly,  like  an  aeroplane  leaving  the  ground, 
they  caught  the  air.  Then  their  long  legs  trailed  out 
in  a  graceful  line  beneath  them,  their  necks  were  folded 
down,  the  soft  blue  of  their  feathers  glinted  in  the  sun, 
and  they  sailed  away  with  all  the  grace  of  supreme 
efficiency,  to  a  rhythmic  beat  of  wings.  Perhaps  no 
bird  illustrates  so  complete  a  change  from  the  shambling 
and  ungainly  to  the  compact,  graceful,  even  stately. 
The  blue  heron  are  less  numerous  in  our  Berkshire 
country  than  in  wilder  regions,  of  course,  yet  they  are 
not  rare  by  any  means,  and  often  add  their  peculiar 
touch  of  Japanese  charm  to  our  river  vistas.  Their 


242    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

smaller  cousins,  the  little  green  herons,  are  common, 
also,  flying  back  and  forth  over  the  fishing  grounds. 

A  bird  that  is  rare,  however,  is  the  wood  duck.  It  is 
rare  in  any  region  now,  more's  the  pity.  It  is  one  of 
the  few  ducks  which  nest  in  trees,  preferring  an  old 
hollow  branch  hanging  over  a  stream.  I  have  never 
found  such  a  nest  myself,  but  once,  on  the  golf  links  in 
Stockbridge;  a  horribly  hooked  drive  took  me  into  a 
piece  of  woods  by  the  river  bend,  and  under  the  over- 
hanging trees  on  the  opposite  bank  I  saw  a  family  of 
wood  duck  swimming,  four  little  ones  in  a  row  follow- 
ing the  mother  about  like  some  tiny  flotilla  in  practice 
evolutions.  A  misstep  of  mine  on  a  dead  limb  sent 
them  all  scurrying  under  the  dark  bank,  and  I  saw  them 
no  more,  for  the  impatient  foursome  rudely :  interrupted 
my  vigil.  Nor  have  I  ever  [seen  them  at  that  spot  again. 

Of  the  four-footed  inhabitants  of  the  land  below  the 
river  bank,  the  painted  turtle  is  most  common  with 
us.  The  turtles  lead  a  lazy  life,  lying  for  the  most  part 
on  an  old  log  in  the  sun,  and  it  is  difficult  to  see  why 
their  dispositions  are  not  more  amiable.  Perhaps,  in- 
deed, they  are  amiable  among  themselves,  keeping  their 
ill  temper  for  the  human  finger.  Half  a  dozen  of  them 
will  often  bask  on  a  foot  or  two  of  snag  above  the  water 
without  any  sign  of  quarrel,  dropping  plop,  plop,  plop 
into  the  stream  as  the  boat  draws  near.  Yet  I  seem  to 
remember  disastrous  domestic  strife,  when,  as  a  boy,  I 
tried  to  keep  several  turtles  in  the  same  tub.  Turtles 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  243 

are  credited  with  attaining  great  antiquity.  Perhaps 
age  makes  them  snappy — age  and  idleness.  The  com- 
bination has  been  known  to  work  a  similar  effect  on 
the  disposition  of  animals  more  elevated  on  the  biological 
ladder!  Our  northern  snapping  turtles  attain  a  very 
considerable  size,  a  foot  across,  and  make  a  delicious 
pie.  Often,  too,  they  seem  to  be  smitten  with  a  wan- 
derlust, leaving  their  land  below  the  river  bank  to  go 
adventuring  across  the  fields.  The  big  fellows  are 
usually  thus  caught  out  of  their  element,  at  times  half  a 
mile  from  the  water.  The  largest  snapper  I  ever  saw 
was  lumbering  along  down  a  country  road,  in  the  dust 
and  heat,  so  comically  like  an  illustration  for  the  fable 
that  we  looked  about  for  the  hare. 

Another  common  inhabitant  of  our  river  world  is 
the  muskrat,  though  the  rise  in  value  of  his  pelt  is 
rapidly  working  havoc  in  his  ranks.  He  is  now,  in  his 
final  transformation,  often  mink,  and  not  infrequently, 
I  am  afraid,  something  more  expensive  still!  The 
muskrat  is  a  little  brother  of  the  beaver,  and  while  not 
so  industrious,  he  is  more  spunky.  He  lives  on  lily 
roots  and  fresh-water  mussels.  You  will  often  see 
mussel  shells  open,  and  the  mussels  gone,  close  to  the 
water's  edge  on  the  sand  shelf  or  at  the  foot  of  a  log. 
The  muskrat  has  been  enjoying  his  midnight  supper 
there.  His  summer  home  is  in  a  hole  under  the  bank, 
either  of  the  river  itself,  or  of  some  bordering  swale. 
In  winter,  however,  he  remaims  in  the  swales  almost 


244    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

entirely,  and  builds  himself  a  good  imitation  of  a  small 
beaver  lodge  out  of  reeds.  An  old  lodge  often  resembles 
a  hummock  in  the  shoal  water,  and  would  readily 
escape  detection.  Next  to  man,  the  muskrat's  chief 
foes  are  the  horned  owls  and  the  foxes.  When  he 
hears,  sees,  or  smells  one  of  these  enemies,  he  dives  into 
the  water,  slapping  it  with  his  tail  in  warning  to  his 
fellows,  and  swims  under  an  overhanging  bank.  The 
owl,  however,  often  waits  patiently  over  the  spot  where 
he  dove,  and  gets  him  when  he  comes  up.  He  can  hardly 
be  a  savory  meal,  but  owls  are  notoriously  not  particular. 
There  are  otters  in  our  stream,  but  most  people  have 
never  seen  them.  A  few  of  those  men  who  are  still 
born  with  the  woodcraft  instinct  amid  an  alien  genera- 
tion, and  surreptitiously  trap  on  the  outskirts  of  our 
groomed  and  gardened  villages,  know  where  the  otters 
are  to  be  found,  know  where  they  have  established 
then:  cross-country  trails,  and  now  and  then  in  Spring 
mysterious  bundles  are  shipped  to  West  Twelfth  Street, 
New  York.  But  most  of  us  never  guess  that  the  otter  is 
our  neighbour.  Where  the  main  stream  is  polluted, 
he  appears  to  keep  to  the  tributaries,  and  only  rarely, 
in  a  secluded  spot,  will  you  find  a  trace  of  his  slide  down 
the  bank,  or  his  web-footed  tracks  leading  away  from 
the  stream,  probably  cross-country  to  some  other 
stream.  It  is  this  habit  of  the  otter  to  establish  regular 
overland  crossings  which  is  his  undoing,  for  it  enables 
the  hunter  to  place  his  traps. 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  245 

A  young  otter  at  play  is  perhaps  the  happiest  crea- 
ture on  sea  or  land.  He  will  climb  a  slippery  bank, 
and  slide  down,  plop,  into  the  water,  over  and  over 
again,  dragging  his  feet  as  he  slides,  his  brown,  cylin- 
drical body  going  head  first  like  a  torpedo.  In  the 
water  his  feats  put  the  finest  water  polo  player  to  the 
blush.  He  will  lie  on  his  back  and  kick  a  floating 
stick  into  the  air,  or  worry  it  from  paw  to  paw,  playing, 
no  doubt,  that  it  is  a  fish.  Then  he  will  retreat  from 
it,  or  dive  beneath  it,  and  suddenly  dart  upon  it  with 
incredible  speed.  The  otter  can  outswim  a  pickerel, 
in  fact.  Its  dexterity  in  the  water  is  amazing.  But  the 
chances  of  seeing  it  are  becoming  fewer  and  fewer. 

There  are  daughters  of  Eve,  and  sons  of  Adam,  who 
do  not  like  snakes,  yet  what  is  more  beautiful  than  a 
mottled  water  snake  coiled  amid  the  curiously  blotched 
roots  of  a  sycamore  tree  above  the  dark  water  of  a  river 
pool?  He  will  not  harm  you.  Indeed,  his  first  in- 
stinct is  to  get  out  of  your  way.  Even  the  deadly 
cotton-mouth  moccasins  of  the  Southern  swamps  flee 
shyly  from  your  approach.  Down  in  the  deep,  shad- 
owed pool  at  the  foot  of  some  dam  or  rapids  a  water 
snake  will  often  live  to  a  venerable  old  age,  till  his 
bright  spots  have  almost  entirely  disappeared  and 
his  skin  is  a  dull,  slaty  gray  before  he  sheds  it,  a  glossy 
black  when  it  is  renewed.  He  feeds  on  unwary  little 
fishes,  and  adds  a  touch  of  mystery  to  the  pool,  the 
mystery  of  his  serpentine  wisdom  and  the  dusky 


246    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

wriggle  of  his  body  just  caught  where  a  sunbeam  pierces 
the  water  below  the  boat. 

"It's  brother  and  sister  to  me,"  said  the  Water  Rat 
in  "The  Wind  hi  the  Willows,"  speaking,  you  will  re- 
call, of  his  land  below  the  river  bank,  "and  aunts  and 
company,  and  food  and  drink,  and  (naturally)  washing. 
It's  my  world,  and  I  don't  want  any  other.  What  it 
hasn't  got  is  not  worth  having,  and  what  it  doesn't 
know  is  not  worth  knowing."  The  Rat  was  one  of 
those  excellent  good  fellows  who  have  passed  the  age  of 
adventuring,  and  settled  down  to  a  kind  of  glowing 
and  enthusiastic  content  with  then-  chosen  surroundings. 
A  bit  of  a  poet,  too,  was  the  Rat,  glorifying  his  river. 

But  there  are  days  when  all  our  sympathies  are 
with  Ratty.  It  is  the  full  tide  of  August  now,  and  the 
river  garden  is  at  its  height.  Two  days  of  recent  rain 
have  filled  the  channel  and  flushed  the  swales.  Yester- 
day we  spent  a  long,  lazy  afternoon  voyaging  in  this 
other-world  so  close  to  us,  yet  so  far  removed,  and  came 
back  as  from  a  dream.  A  soft  haze  silvered  the  bound- 
ing hills  and  lazy  white  clouds  looked  at  themselves  in 
the  water.  Mild  water  peppers  waved  their  finger- 
like  blooms  above  us  upon  the  bends;  the  blue  vervains 
held  up  their  purple  spikes;  where  a  chunk  of  bank 
thatch  had  fallen  almost  into  the  water,  a  tiny  garden  of 
forget-me-nots  was  nodding  at  its  reflection;  on  a  green 
eyeot  in  midstream,  wild  sunflowers  and  jewel  weed 
and  pink  thistles  grew  together;  and  everywhere  be- 


BELOW  THE  RIVER  BANK  247 

neath  the  willows  the  great  beds  of  Joe-pye-weed  made 
glorious  the  vistas.  Golden-rod,  too,  nodded  at  us  over 
the  banks,  and  in  the  cloistered  swales  the  cardinal 
flower  glowed.  Once  a  great  blue  heron,  resting  on 
motionless  wings,  went  by  us  overhead,  like  a  perfectly 
controlled  monoplane.  Each  bend  of  the  river  invited 
to  new  mysteries.  At  a  break  in  the  trees  mild-faced 
cattle  came  down  to  drink  and  gazed  at  us  with  placid 
curiosity,  their  forelegs  submerged — perhaps  the  cool- 
est and  most  luscious  sight  in  nature  upon  a  summer 
day!  Once,  through  the  willows,  we  saw  a  country 
house  sitting  proudly  in  its  broad  acres;  once  the  white 
spire  of  a  village  church;  again,  at  the  end  of  a  sun- 
flecked  lane,  a  green  pasture  running  up  a  hillside 
crowned  by  a  sentinel  oak.  On  the  dark,  quiet  water 
always  was  a  second  landscape  which  shimmered,  a  little 
unquiet  and  reversed,  and  between  the  two  we  floated, 
down  the  fairy  aisles  of  a  garden,  peaceful,  unworldly, 
remote.  My  formal  beds  of  phlox  and  antirrhinums,  of 
platycodons  and  stock  and  balsam,  and  my  tiny  cement 
pool,  looked  stiff  and  mean  enough  when  I  came  back  to 
them.  Even  the  compost  heap  was  better  than  they, 
for  it  had  draped  itself  with  a  gigantic  squash  vine,  a 
mass  of  sunflowers,  a  wild  cucumber,  and  a  tangle  of 
poppies.  Some  day  I  shall  own  a  place  which  takes  in 
both  banks  of  a  river,  and  the  genius  of  the  stream  will 
be  my  gardener. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
TREES 

ANY  real  estate  dealer  can  bear  witness  to  the 
depth  and  universality  of  the  human  love  for 
trees.  A  country  house  without  trees  is  almost 
unthinkable — certainly  unsellable;  and  when  Nature 
has  not  provided  arboreal  adornment,  the  builder  at 
once  sets  out  to  supply  the  deficiency.  Sometimes,  to 
be  sure,  he  uses  but  little  judgment  in  so  doing,  sticking 
Colorado  blue  spruces  in  the  middle  of  New  England 
lawns  or  messing  other  exotics  into  clumps  which 
Nature  would  disdain;  but  his  instinct  is  sound,  if  his 
taste  is  not.  He  must  have  trees  about  his  dwelling. 
Some  men  demand  them  for  architectural  effect,  to 
frame  the  house,  to  back  the  borders,  to  make  those 
masses  of  shadow  at  the  end  of  a  lawn  or  vista  which  are 
essential  to  a  successful  garden.  A  garden  without 
trees,  in  fact,  is  even  more  depressing  than  a  land 
without  hills.  Some  men,  again,  demand  trees  for  their 
protection  from  the  prying  world  or  the  winter  wind, 
some  for  their  shade,  some,  perhaps,  just  for  their  mute 
friendliness.  But  at  bottom,  I  believe,  all  these 
reasons  are  the  same.  A  man  demands  trees  about  his 

248 


TREES  249 

dwelling  because  deep  within  him,  deep  perhaps  as  the 
primal  instincts  of  the  race,  is  a  great  and  trustful 
affection  humorously  akin  to  the  dog's  trust  in  the  table 
beneath  which  he  lies  whether  to  escape  the  heat  of 
Summer  or  the  4th  of  July  fire  crackers.  For  all  the 
centuries  of  upward  development,  for  all  our  tall-built 
cities  and  snug  dwellings,  we  are  close  to  the  ancient 
Mother  still.  Go  out  some  day  into  the  wild  places, 
let  night  come  on,  or  a  storm,  and  see  how  you  turn  like 
a  homing  bird  to  the  shelter  of  the  hemlock  thicket! 
Even  on  my  own  little  place  of  a  few  acres,  there  is  a 
grove  of  pines  near  the  house,  murmurous  like  the  sea, 
and  beside  it  three  gnarled  old  apple  trees  which  put  a 
green  roof  over  that  bit  of  the  lawn,  and  to  them  I  return 
a  dozen  times  a  day  out  of  the  sunshine  or  the  moonlight 
on  the  garden,  as  a  man  returns  to  the  welcome  of  his 
roof  and  hearth.  It  has  never  occurred  to  me  before  to 
explain  or  analyze  this  feeling,  it  has  been  so  much  an 
unconscious  part  of  my  life;  but  I  realize  its  implications 
now. 

Trees,  of  course,  are  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as  the 
most  useful  of  growing  things,  not  because  they  are  the 
largest  but  because  they  attain  often  to  the  finest 
symmetry  and  because  they  have  the  most  decided  and 
appealing  personalities.  Any  one  who  has  not  felt  the 
personality  of  trees  is  oddly  insensitive.  I  cannot, 
indeed,  imagine  a  person  wholly  incapable  of  such 
feeling,  though  the  man  who  plants  a  Colorado  blue 


250    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

spruce  on  a  trimmed  lawn  east  of  the  Alleghanies,  where 
it  is  obliged  to  comport  itself  with  elms  and  trolley  cars, 
is  admittedly  pretty  callous.  Trees  are  peculiarly  the 
product  of  their  environment,  and  their  personalities,  in 
a  natural  state,  have  invariably  a  beautiful  fitness. 

Take  the  white  pine  for  example,  noblest  of  all  our 
common  North  American  trees.  The  pine  by  nature 
is  gregarious  in  the  extreme.  One  old  patriarch,  if  left 
alone,  will  in  a  few  years  breed  a  family  of  seedlings  half 
an  acre  in  extent  about  its  feet,  and  this  little  stand  of 
seedlings,  in  time,  if  they  are  left  alone,  will  in  a  single 
generation  begin  to  breed  more  seedlings  out  to  wind- 
ward, and  thus  in  a  hundred  years  the  patriarch,  the 
grandfather  of  the  forest,  will  be  hidden  perhaps  in  the 
depths  of  an  extensive  wood.  The  young  trees  as  they 
begin  to  grow  are  crowded  thickly  together,  and  very 
soon  their  lateral  branches  begin  to  touch  and  shade 
completely  the  ground  beneath.  As  soon  as  this  hap- 
pens, of  course,  all  the  lateral  branches  below  the  upper 
layer  are  shaded,  too,  and  begin  to  die.  Only  the  tops 
of  the  trees  get  the  sun,  so  they  give  up  the  natural 
effort  to  spread,  and  devote  most  of  their  attention  to 
racing  upward  after  more  and  more  sunshine.  The 
weaker  trees,  crowded  in  between  the  strong,  sooner  or 
later  give  up  the  struggle  and  die,  but  the  strong  ones 
keep  going  up  and  up,  till  all  signs  of  their  lower  lateral 
branches  have  completely  disappeared  and  the  lofty 
trunks  tower  straight  as  ruled  lines  for  fifty,  seventy- 


TREES  251 

five,  in  primeval  forests  even  for  one  hundred  feet  in  air, 
before  the  trees  grow  a  single  limb.  It  takes  many  gen- 
erations to  make  such  a  forest,  though,  alas !  but  a  few 
months  to  destroy  it.  What  man  who  has  ever  entered 
the  hushed  cathedral  aisles  of  a  mighty  pine  grove — fra- 
grant with  that  indescribable  incense,  murmurous  over- 
head with  the  whisper  of  surf  upon  a  lonely  shore, 
mysterious  with  the  tiny  patter  of  pitch,  illumined 
through  vistas  between  the  solemn  uprights  that  look 
like  blue  daggers  of  light — can  ever  forget  it?  It  is  like 
nothing  else  on  earth.  One  fancies,  sometimes,  that  the 
Egyptian  temples  must  have  been,  on  their  man-made 
scale,  something  akin,  though  with  far  less  grace  and 
airiness.  A  pine  tree  is  always  graceful,  which  is  hardly 
the  word  for  an  Egyptian  column. 

Yet  the  isolated  pine,  which  has  not  fought  upward  in 
the  crowded  phalanx  of  its  fellows  but  has  expanded 
laterally  as  well,  is  a  totally  different  tree,  with  a  totally 
different  personality — a  very  noble  and  sturdy  person- 
ality, too.  How  characteristic  of  our  northern  moun- 
tains is  the  ragged  upland  pasture,  where  the  cattle 
wander  through  hassocks  of  grass  and  sweet  fern,  and  by 
some  bit  of  gray  stone  wall  a  single  pine  stands  up 
alone,  its  branches  extended  in  angular  parallels  like  a 
cedar  of  Lebanon,  broken  and  stunted  short  on  the  side 
toward  the  prevailing  winter  storms,  streaming  away 
more  gracefully  to  leeward,  and  the  massive  trunk — 
comparatively  short  and  gnarled  instead  of  tall  and 


252    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

mast-like — inclined  a  little  from  the  winter  gales  as  if  it 
had  stood  its  ground  and  taken  their  buffets  for  a  hun- 
dred years  without  more  than  bending  backward  from 
the  hips  when  the  blows  rained  thickest.  I  know  such  a 
pine  on  a  hilltop  which  has  been  carved  by  the  storms 
of  a  century  into  a  quaint  and  splendid  replica  of  the 
Winged  Victory,  and  there  is  no  passer  who  sees  it  but 
pauses  a  moment  to  admire  its  rugged  beauty,  its  sug- 
gestion of  triumphant,  dogged  strength.  To  deny  that 
pine  personality  is  to  prove  your  utter  lack  of  imagina- 
tion. 

The  American  elm  is  another  common  native  tree 
possessing  both  great  beauty  and  a  strongly  marked 
personality.  It  is  easy  to  say  that  the  elm  was  madejthe 
standard  shade  tree  of  American  municipalities  by  the 
early  settlers  because  it  was  easily  procured  and  phys- 
ically well  adapted  to  the  purpose.  But  that  really  does 
not  explain  the  choice.  The  maple  was  quite  as  com- 
mon, is  more  easily  transplanted,  and  a  much  more  rapid 
grower.  Indeed,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  rather  more 
generally  used  on  that  account.  The  ash  and  the  oak 
were  at  hand,  the  pine  and  the  hemlock,  the  sycamore 
and  linden.  All  of  them,  moreover,  were  employed. 
So  were  the  chestnut  and  the  black  cherry.  But  the 
elm  was  felt  to  be  the  standard  then,  and  is  still  recog- 
nized as  the  standard,  because  its  personality  so  exactly 
comports  with  geometrical  street  vistas,  with  the  formal 
lines  of  architecture,  with  the  orderliness  and  dignity 


TREES  253 

of  university  campuses  and  civic  squares.  The  elm  is 
essentially  a  self-sufficient  tree.  It  does  not  thrive  in 
groves.  It  has  a  standard  type  of  its  own,  and  it  either 
attains  this  type  or  is  lost  to  view.  Sometimes,  in  a 
wild  state,  it  attains  it  by  killing  out  its  immediate  com- 
petitors, but  more  often  it  is  killed  out  by  them,  and 
the  elm  which  comes  to  maturity  is  the  one  which  has 
lodged  in  a  favoured  spot  where  there  is  no  com- 
petition, such  as  a  river  meadow,  where  the  spring  fresh- 
ets have  dropped  the  seed  on  fertile  soil  and  the  roots 
can  get  down  to  water. 

We  all  know  the  type — the  noble  trunk  of  massive 
girth,  tapering  very  gradually  upward  to  the  first  spring 
of  branches,  and  then  dissolving  in  those  branches  as  a 
water  jet  might  dissolve  in  many  upward  and  out-curv- 
ing streams,  till  the  whole  is  lost  in  the  spray  of  the  fo- 
liage. Like  many  trees  which  grow  alone,  it  develops  an 
exquisite  symmetry,  but  with  the  elm  this  symmetry  is 
not  only  one  of  general  contour  but  of  individual  limbs. 
Not  only  is  the  silhouette  symmetrical,  but  the  skeleton, 
branch  balancing  branch.  That  is  what  gives  it  its  re- 
markable fitness  to  comport  with  architectural  lines, 
with  geometrically  designed  vistas.  It  has  a  formal 
structure,  and  a  consequent  dignity,  which  make  it  the 
logical  shade  for  a  village  street,  a  chapel,  a  library,  the 
scholarly  procession  in  cap  and  gown.  Add  to  that 
dignity  its  arched  and  airy  lightness  and  its  splendid 
size,  and  you  have  the  king  of  urban  trees. 


254    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

Yet  I  sometimes  think  the  elm  is  never  so  lovely  as 
when  it  grows  along  the  river  bends,  where  Nature 
planted  it.  We  all  know  such  river  bends,  every  Amer- 
ican cherishes  in  memory  the  picture  of  a  green  inter- 
vale, of  browsing  cattle,  of  a  winding  stream  with 
vervain  and  wild  cucumber  on  the  banks,  and  now  and 
then,  rising  like  graceful  green  fountains  or  like  great 
Vases  on  slender  stems,  the  noble  elms — the  wardens 
oB  the  peaceful  landscape.  The  valley  of  the  Housa- 
tonic,  in  the  Berkshire  Hills,  is  peculiarly  rich,  per- 
haps, in  splendid  trees  of  many  kinds,  especially  wil- 
lows. Yet  its  elms  stand  out  with  a  certain  aristo- 
cratic aloofness,  and  demand,  or  rather  compel,  the 
chief  attention.  Over  the  well-kept  village  streets 
they  spread  magnificently,  with  the  spring  of  a  Gothic 
arch  in  their  massive  limbs,  and  oriole  nests  depend 
like  tiny  platinum  ear-drops  from  the  outer  twigs. 
But  along  the  river  you  see  the  whole  tree,  you  are  not 
conscious  of  it  as  the  underside  of  an  arch  but  rather 
as  a  complete  and  beautiful  design,  a  mammoth  vase 
rising  on  its  graceful  stem  from  the  emerald  meadows. 
There  are  five  such  elms  in  a  row  near  my  home.  They 
grow  along  the  bank  of  a  swale  close  to  the  river,  with 
space  enough  between  them  so  that  each  tree  has 
reached  its  standard  of  form,  and  yet  each,  too,  has 
conceded  a  little  something  to  its  neighbour  and  made 
up  for  the  loss  by  a  fringe  of  foliage  close  around  the 
trunk,  as  well-fed  elms  sometimes  do.  They  are  of 


TREES  255 

almost  exactly  the  same  height  and  girth,  and  yet,  if 
you  look  closely,  no  two  are  really  alike.  They  differ 
as  the  great  doors  of  Notre  Dame  in  Paris  differ— 
individual  yet  harmonious.  When  the  bulwarks  of 
willow  around  the  river  bends  are  turning  to  soft, 
grayish  silver  in  the  low  afternoon  light,  when  the 
shadows  are  creeping  like  long  amethyst  fingers  over 
the  grass,  these  five  trees  rise  in  radiant  lightness  against 
the  west,  every  detail  of  their  lovely  symmetry  out- 
lined sharply  against  the  sky,  and  from  the  topmost 
branches  a  meadow  lark  pours  out  his  vesper  song. 
They  are  like  a  row  of  figures  by  Botticelli  arrested  in  a 
stately  dance. 

These  same  trees  are  scarcely  less  beautiful  in  Win- 
ter. Some  lovers  of  trees,  indeed,  delight  in  the  body 
more  than  the  raiment.  A  nude  tree  may  be  pathetic 
in  its  suggestion  of  vanished  Summer,  but  it  is  seldom 
or  never  unlovely.  Did  not  Ruskin  somewhere  speak 
of  the  wonderful  life  in  the  line  of  a  twig  or  branch? 
Certainly  no  line  in  Nature  is  so  vital,  whether  it  be 
the  straight  taper  of  a  Norway  spruce  trunk  or  the 
radiating  forked  lightning  of  an  aged  locust  top.  The 
locust  tree,  indeed,  is  too  little  appreciated,  especially 
by  our  artists.  Those  people  who  are  enraptured  by 
the  crooked  pine  branch  in  a  Japanese  print  will  often 
pass  beneath  a  fine  old  native  locust  without  so  much 
as  glancing  up  to  observe  its  true  aspect.  Its  branches 
are  always  at  the  top,  in  flowering  time  hung  with 


25G    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

fragrant  white  blossoms  not  unlike  the  Japanese  wis- 
taria, later  conspicuous  for  their  curiously  sparse  and 
delicate  foliage,  and,  best  of  all,  in  Winter  showing  in 
stark  outline  the  most  bewildering  forks  and  twists 
and  angles  of  growth,  yet  not  a  limb  of  them  which, 
for  all  its  irregularity,  has  not  a  splendid  force  and 
rugged  picturesqueness.  Those  tough,  jabbing  branches 
bespeak  the  tough  fibre  of  the  wood.  Perhaps  only 
the  man  who  has  been  forced  to  tackle  a  dead  locust 
with  an  axe  can  truly  appreciate  this  tree.  I  cannot 
say  why — some  childish  and  now  forgotten  association, 
no  doubt — but  a  gray,  aged  locust  always  reminds  me 
of  Ulysses  after  his  years  of  wanderings,  and  never 
more  so  than  in  Winter  when  the  limbs  are  nude  and 
the  joints  seem  twisted  as  if  with  conflict. 

Against  an  evening  sky,  indeed,  almost  any  bare 
tree  takes  on  a  strange  mystery  and  charm.  Where 
the  still  brook  gleams  like  quicksilver  in  the  grass  and 
the  gathering  night  seems  to  exhale  from  the  under- 
growth, the  ash  trees  and  other  sentinels  on  some  old 
fence  line  stand  up  to  the  fading  west  with  every 
branch  and  twig  distinct  and  black,  making  a  lacy 
pattern  of  infinite  intricacy,  which  for  all  its  trans- 
parency seems  somehow  to  imprison  a  little  of  the 
rising  twilight.  I  remember  once  tramping  north 
from  Cambridge,  in  those  youthful  days  when  one 
wandered  cross-country  with  his  boon  companion  and 
settled  all  the  problems  of  the  universe;  and  presently, 


TREES  257 

out  in  the  rolling  Middlesex  fields,  we  crested  a  hill 
by  a  long,  straight  road  which  ran  mournfully  into  the 
gathering  November  twilight,  like  some  road  in  Hardy's 
novels.  At  the  crest  we  had  a  glimpse  on  the  far  hori- 
zon of  the  last  red  banner  of  the  defeated  day,  and 
running  down  the  slope  toward  it  was  a  leafless  apple 
orchard.  The  trees  were  gray,  the  ground  beneath 
them  was  a  smoky  brown,  and  in  their  gray  tracery  of 
branches  the  sunset  had  hung  a  veil,  a  veil  of  softest 
amethyst,  the  mysterious  veil  of  Astarte.  To  this 
day  I  can  recall  our  consciousness  that  this  orchard 
was  alive,  that  it  was  a  personality,  or  a  group  of  per- 
sonalities, whom  we  were  passing.  We  seemed  to 
leave  it  behind  whispering  strange  things,  as  the 
mournful  November  wind  came  over  the  upland. 

Did  you  ever  look  carefully  at  an  old,  neglected 
apple  tree  in  Winter?  An  old,  neglected  apple  tree,  of 
course,  always  makes  the  arms  of  the  true  agriculturist 
yearn  for  a  pruning  saw,  as  Grizel's  arms  rocked  for  a 
sponge  and  water  when  she  saw  a  dirty  baby.  But, 
forgetting  farmers'  bulletins  for  a  moment,  did  you  ever 
pause  to  admire  the  veritable  spray  of  "suckers"  such 
a  tree  will  have  sent  up,  like  a  shower-bath  nozzle 
turned  upside  down?  The  pattern  they  make  is 
tangled  and  formless,  but  what  a  testimony  they  are 
to  the  vitality  of  the  tree,  what  eloquent  witnesses  of 
its  will  to  live!  A  dead  limb-end  may  have  rotted 
back  to  make  a  flicker's  or  a  bluebird's  nest,  the  trunk 


258    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

may  be  ringed  with  the  sapsucker's  bores,  the  tree  may 
be  lopsided  and  perishing  with  scale — but  all  over  it 
sprout  the  suckers,  its  symbol  of  continued  struggle. 
The  poor  old  apple  tree  beside  some  abandoned  farm- 
house or  cellar-hole,  where,  perchance,  no  house  has 
stood  for  generations,  still  fighting  for  life,  still  striving 
to  "function,"  is  to  me  a  brave  and  beautiful  thing. 

The  trees  of  the  hills  and  rocky  pastures  have  a  dif- 
ferent character  from  their  fatly  nourished  brothers  of 
the  plain,  and,  as  among  men,  they  are  often  less  beau- 
tiful and  more  interesting.  The  sugar  maple  which 
starts  life  as  a  tiny  seedling  in  the  sediment  of  a  rain 
pool  on  top  of  a  boulder,  and  survives  by  sending  its 
roots  down  around  the  very  rock  till  it  seems,  in  the 
course  of  a  century,  to  clasp  the  rock  "with  crooked 
hands"  as  an  eagle  might  hold  a  ball  in  its  claws,  usu- 
ally develops  a  rough  sturdiness  of  trunk  and  very 
often  a  twisted  formation  of  growth,  which  suggest 
almost  human  qualities  of  aggressiveness  and  tenacity. 
Such  a  tree  seems  actually  to  have  wrestled  with  its 
environment,  and  put  its  enemies  underfoot.  It  is  to 
the  upland  hardwoods,  too,  that  all  boys  know  they 
must  go  for  nuts.  Did  not  the  finest  chestnuts  always 
grow  on  a  hill?  And  what  man  is  so  poor  in  memories 
that  he  cannot  recall  those  golden  October  mornings 
when  there  was  frost  in  the  air,  and  the  pungent  smell 
of  dried  sweet  fern,  and  up  among  the  boulders  the 
gray  hickories,  still  flaunting  a  few  yellow  leaves,  had 


TREES  259 

shed  their  store?  The  nut  tree  has  a  certain  rough, 
scraggly  quality,  a  clean,  hard,  wiry,  knotted  char- 
acter, that  exactly  comports  with  bowlder-strewn  pas- 
tures, a  keen  October  sky,  and  the  autumn  wind  piping 
over  the  hilltops.  The  great  oak  of  the  pastures,  also, 
flings  its  outlines  against  the  cloud-race  and  the  blue 
with  magnificent  masculinity,  and  the  dignity  of  age 
and  power. 

The  canoe  birch,  too,  is  essentially  an  upland  tree; 
it  does  not  thrive  near  sea  level,  at  any  rate  in  Mass- 
achusetts. Farther  north  it  creeps  down  nearer  the 
coast.  The  birch,  above  all  our  American  trees,  de- 
lights in  theatrical  effects.  And  if  that  sentence  is 
objected  to  on  the  ground  of  "pathetic  fallacy,"  we  will 
commit  the  whole  sin  at  once,  and  add  that  it  is  the 
most  feminine  of  trees!  In  earliest  Spring,  when 
the  hepaticas  are  pushing  up  last  year's  leaves  and  our 
Berkshire  mountain  sides  are  donning  their  frail,  deli- 
cate veils  of  colour,  the  young  birches  are  conspicuous 
for  the  startling  brightness  of  their  new  foliage,  a 
green  so  much  lighter  and  more  vivid  than  all  the  other 
greens  that  it  would  arrest  attention  even  if  it  were 
not  borne  on  a  snow-white  stem.  Your  young  birch 
has  all  the  daring  of  a  debutante!  Later,  when  the 
summer  thunder-storms  come,  the  birch  has  another 
trick  up  its  sleeve.  Some  afternoon  a  dark,  gunmetal 
thunder-head  will  mass  behind  the  crest  of  a  hill,  and 
suddenly  an  old  birch  on  the  summit  will  leap  into 


260    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

startling  prominence,  so  that  it  focusses  the  entire 
attention,  like  a  single  splendid  streak  of  chalk-white 
lightning.  Again,  in  mid-winter,  when  the  birch  by 
rights  should  be  protectively  coloured  and  incon- 
spicuous, it  is  the  other  trees  we  do  not  notice,  and  the 
birch  which  rises  by  the  edge  of  the  frozen  stream, 
perhaps,  or  against  the  dark  wall  of  the  pines,  and  dis- 
plays all  its  snowy  limbs  to  best  advantage  against 
evergreen  or  sky. 

Only  the  sycamore  has  a  bark  which  can  rival  the 
birch  for  showy  effect — yet  how  different  are  the  two 
trees.  It  has  never  occurred  to  any  one  to  call  the 
sycamore  a  feminine  tree.  It  is  large,  dignified,  mas- 
culine, and  totally  unaware  of  the  picturesque  effect 
created  by  its  tortuous  branches  and  its  great  mottled 
patches  of  grayish  white  bark,  alternating  with  brown. 
When  all  is  said,  the  birch  is  a  vain  tree,  but  we  must 
also  admit  it  has  a  right  to  be;  and  we  cannot  scold  it, 
either,  it  wears  its  white  betimes  with  such  an  air  of 
virgin  innocence. 

Many  years  ago  a  lover  of  trees  in  the  village  where 
my  boyhood  was  passed  prepared  a  little  booklet, 
describing  and  picturing  a  score  or  so  of  the  finest 
trees  in  the  township.  Only  the  other  day  I  came 
across  a  copy,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  two  decades. 
I  sat  down  to  its  pages  as  to  a  feast.  Yes,  there  was 
the  old  Cap'n  George  Bachelder  sassafras,  the  largest 
in  the  State,  sixty-two  feet  high!  How  familiar  it 


TREES  261 

looked !  How  my  nostrils  could  inhale  again  the  aroma 
of  the  chips  hacked  with  a  jack  knife  from  its  roots! 
And  here,  on  the  next  page,  was  the  Emerson  oak, 
growing  between  the  barn  and  the  house,  and  throwing 
mottled  shadows  over  both — a  mighty  spread,  indeed! 
I  could  hear  the  horses  stamping  in  the  barn,  I  could 
smell  the  hay,  I  could  savour  again  the  coolness  of  the 
shade  as  we  dropped  beneath  it  on  our  way  home  from 
the  swimming  hole.  That  oak  and  the  old  Emerson 
homestead  were  unthinkable  apart.  If  I,  who  merely 
lived  a  mile  on  down  the  road,  could  so  thrill  to  a  picture 
of  that  tree  in  after  years,  what,  I  reflected,  must  be  the 
affection  in  which  an  Emerson  holds  it?  Is  it  still 
there?  Surely  it  must  be,  for  the  oak  outlives  our  little 
spans,  and  that  any  one  could  lay  an  axe  to  it  is  in- 
conceivable. 

So  I  lingered  through  the  book,  greeting  each  picture 
as  I  would  greet  the  likeness  of  a  boyhood  friend,  each 
bringing  back  to  me  not  only  its  own  image,  but  what  a 
wealth  else  of  associated  memories !  Surely,  every  man 
holds  certain  trees  thus  warmly  in  his  affection — trees 
he  planted,  or  his  father  or  his  grandfather  planted, 
trees  which  gave  him  shade  and  shelter,  trees  which 
were  an  integral  part  of  his  home,  trees  which  had  some 
grace  of  limb  or  charm  of  character  which  forever  en- 
deared them  to  him,  through  the  subtle  channels  of 
aesthetic  satisfaction.  "Trees  have  no  personality?"  I 
said,  as  I  closed  the  pamphlet.  "Then  there  is  no  such 


GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

thing  as  the  influence  of  line  and  contour  on  the  human 
mind,  and  no  such  thing  as  affection  for  the  inanimate — 
which  is  nonsense." 

But  one  tree  this  pamphlet  did  not  picture.  It  was  a 
great  chestnut,  full  five  feet  through,  storm-torn  and 
lightning-scarred,  which  stood  high  upon  a  windy  sum- 
mit, the  shepherd  of  a  hundred  hills.  They  were  little 
hills,  green  and  rolling,  and  from  the  first  great  limb  of 
the  chestnut  (which  was  as  big  as  a  barrel)  they  looked 
like  a  patchwork  quilt  stitched  with  stone  walls.  Over 
them  the  cattle  browsed,  or  the  reapers  clicked  their 
midsummer  locust  song,  or  just  the  breeze  passed 
whispering.  And  four  feet  dangled  from  the  great  limb 
of  the  chestnut,  and  four  eyes  looked  out  across  the  little 
hills  to  a  far  pond  and  the  misty  horizon,  and  two 
hearts  sang  a  song  as  old  as  the  hills  themselves.  When 
the  sun  declined,  the  shadow  of  the  great  tree  swept  out 
eastward;  the  cattle  filed  down  to  the  bars  and  lowed, 
the  leader  shaking  her  bell  protestingly ;  one  pair  of  arms 
must  needs  be  raised  to  assist  the  more  encumbered 
climber  down  to  the  top  of  our  ladder,  which  was  a  huge 
piece  of  broken  limb  propped  against  the  trunk,  and 
then  again  be  raised  from  the  ground  to  swing  a  burden, 
all  too  light,  to  earth.  Then  there  must  follow  a  little 
ceremony — the  cutting  of  a  tiny  notch  in  a  deep  and 
secret  recess  of  the  bark  to  signify  one  more  day  of  hap- 
piness spent  in  that  protecting  shelter,  and  sometimes 
a  warm  pink  cheek  was  laid  against  the  furrowed 


TREES  263 

trunk,  and  a  voice  whispered:  "Nice  old  grandpa  chest- 
nut!" 

That  was  many  years  ago.  I  wonder  if  that  noble  old 
tree  is  standing  yet,  or  whether  the  chestnut  blight,  the 
axe,  or  the  lightning,  has  robbed  the  little  hills  of  their 
shepherd.  I  shall  never  know,  I  shall  never  count 
again  the  little  notches  in  a  secret  recess  of  the  bark,  nor 
hear  the  sweet,  silly  secrets  the  old  tree  would  not  be- 
tray. I  could  go  there  now,  to  the  very  spot,  yes,  on  the 
darkest  night;  a  memory  in  the  soles  of  my  feet  would 
wake  and  tell  me  the  path.  But  I  shall  never  take  the 
risk.  Some  memories  must  never  be  dusted,  some  paths 
never  retrod.  For  me  that  storm-scarred  grandfather 
of  a  tree  shall  forever  stand  shepherd  over  the  little  hills, 
the  little,  green  rolling  hills  where  the  cattle  browse  and 
the  wind  whispers  to  the  mullein  stalks;  and  against  its 
hoary  bark  a  soft  pink  cheek  is  pressed,  and  I  am 
twenty -one  again. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING 

THERE  are  certain  lines  or  a  composition  of  lines 
in  Nature  which  have  a  definite  effect  on  the  spirit 
of,  Man,  induce  a  definite  mood,  and,  recognizing 
this  Man  has  often  made  use  of  them  in  his  archi- 
tectural structures.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  pro- 
nounced difference  between  the  spiritual  effect  of  a 
vertical  and  a  horizontal  line,  when  they  are  stressed 
sufficiently  to  dominate  the  scene  or  the  structure.  The 
long  horizontal  is  a  symbol  of  peace,  the  soaring  vertical 
of  aspiration.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  this  should  be  so, 
the  one  remaining  plodding  and  pedestrian  on  the  com- 
fortable level,  the  other  leaving  the  ground  and  making 
for  the  stars. 

Nothing  is  more  peaceful,  more  soothing  to  the  spirit, 
than  a  canal.  Brimming  and  level,  without  flow  or 
current,  it  lays  its  watery  highway  through  the  flat 
fields,  and  life  would  seem  leisurely  as  you  strolled  be- 
side it  even  if  you  were  unaware  that  traffic  is  actually 
leisurely  upon  its  bosom.  A  canal  is  the  apotheosis  of 
the  horizontal,  the  trees  which  march  by  its  bank  falling 
into  misty  green  procession  like  a  line  of  level  housetops, 

264 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING      265 

the  barge  lying  horizontal  on  its  flood,  even  the  driver 
and  the  mules  and  the  cable  falling  into  level  line  as  you 
see  them  through  a  haze  of  rain,  perhaps,  or  the  morning 
fog.  There  was  once  an  unhappy  time  in  my  life  when  I 
fought  the  demon  Insomnia,  and  when  my  nerves  were 
at  the  breaking  point  I  used  to  take  a  train  to  Princeton 
and  idle  in  a  canoe  up  the  canal  there,  with  the  dreaming 
towers  of  the  college  rising  above  the  trees  on  the  distant 
hill  and  presently  a  sight  of  the  quaint  little  whitewashed 
lock  house  with  its  window  boxes  of  gay  geraniums. 
That  canal  was  better  than  medicine  for  me,  soothing, 
tranquil,  sleepy. 

But  how  different  an  effect  is  wrought  by  even  so 
short  a  vertical  as  a  ten-foot  dam  or  natural  waterfall. 
Even  though  the  stream  is  descending,  the  eye  takes  an 
upward  tilt,  catching  on  the  rocks  at  the  side  or  the 
smooth,  gleaming  columns  of  the  water,  and  seeing  in 
imagination  the  higher  level  above.  One  views  such  a 
cataract  as  Niagara,  of  course,  with  a  confusion  of  emo- 
tions, half  stunned  by  its  roar  and  overwhelmed  by  the 
volume  of  its  waters.  Yet  when  you  stand  under  the 
falls  and  look  up,  you  feel  distinctly  the  mood  of  aspira- 
tion, you  are  less  aware  of  a  descending  deluge  than  of  a 
beautiful  upward-soaring  line  ending  in  a  suave,  glitter- 
ing curve  that  springs  out  of  sight  into  the  sun  and 
spray.  One  of  the  most  perfect  examples  of  the  vertical 
line  in  Nature,  of  course,  is  furnished  by  a  pine  grove  on 
the  shore  of  a  lake,  where  each  tall,  straight  trunk  stands 


266    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

up  companioning  its  fellows,  in  stately  silhouette  against 
the  sunlit  water  beyond.  Our  eyes  may  not  seek  the 
branches  above,  the  mere  passage  across  the  vision  of 
those  upright  columns  being  enough  to  evoke  the  mood, 
a  grave,  solemn  cathedral  mood.  I  have  often  wondered 
if  it  were  not  such  a  grove  of  trees  which  gave  to  the 
sculptor  of  the  Parthenon  frieze  his  idea  for  the  pro- 
cession of  vertical  draperies  which  add  such  grave  state- 
liness  to  that  composition. 

Man's  use  of  the  vertical  in  his  buildings,  of  course, 
reaches  its  most  characteristic  expression  in  Gothic 
architecture.  The  mood  of  aspiration  so  closely  asso- 
ciated with  all  religions  is  directly  appealed  to  alike  by 
the  Moslem  minaret  and  the  Christian  spire,  but  it  was 
in  the  Gothic  style  that  it  reached  its  flower,  and  the 
soaring  uprights  sprang  unbroken  into  the  dim  tracery 
of  sky-borne  vaults,  the  innermost  skeleton  structure  of 
the  cathedral  revealing  itself  in  verticals.  One  of  the 
chief  reasons,  of  course,  why  an  English  cathedral  never 
gives  you  quite  the  stirring  effect  of  Rheims  or  Chartres 
is  because  horizontals  have  been  introduced.  Cu- 
riously enough,  it  was  not  until  Cass  Gilbert  applied 
Gothic  to  our  modern  skyscrapers  (in  the  West  Street 
building  and  the  Wool  worth  Tower,  particularly),  that 
they  justified  their  height  aesthetically.  If  you  look 
attentively  at  the  ordinary  skyscraper,  you  will  see  that 
the  various  stories  are  clearly  marked  by  horizontal 
rows  of  windows — the  building  is  a  layer  cake  of  hori- 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING      267 

zontals,  a  scheme  which  obviously  does  not  comport 
with  its  extraordinary  proportions.  But  by  stressing  the 
spaces  between  the  windows  into  unbroken  piers  and  thus 
throwing  the  windows  back  and  relating  each  one  not  to 
those  on  either  side,  but  to  those  below  and  above  on-the 
same  vertical  line,  an  entirely  new  effect  is  achieved. 
The  mood  of  the  upright  is  evoked,  as  befits  so  tall  and 
narrow  a  structure,  and  a  true  and  fitting  beauty  is  created. 
We  naturally  think  of  mountains  as  something  verti- 
cal, but  they  are  seldom  vertical  as  a  matter  of  fact; 
they  have  a  vast  variety  of  line  and  of  mood.  The 
Berkshire  Hills,  for  example,  run  in  two  parallel  ranges 
east  and  west  of  a  sweet  green  valley,  with  level  tops 
like  the  crest  of  an  advancing  wave,  and  the  scenery 
among  them  is  most  often  spoken  of  as  "peaceful."  It 
is  the  peace,  of  course,  of  the  horizontal,  the  peace,  al- 
most, of  the  slow  canal  or  the  long  green  marshes  border- 
ing the  sea,  or  would  be  were  it  not  for  the  pleasant 
contrast  of  sloping  shoulders.  It  is  only  the  sharp 
peak  or  the  towering  pyramid  which  has  the  true 
vertical  aspiration,  such  a  peak  as  the  Matterhorn,  or 
Chief  Mountain  in  northern  Montana  (which  stands  out 
sharp  and  precipitous  from  the  wall  of  the  Great  Divide, 
sentinelling  the  prairie) ,  or  the  white-capped  cone  of  Fuji- 
yama, used  over  and  over  in  their  prints  by  Hokusai  or 
Hiroshige,  like  a  religious  motif.  Mountains,  indeed,  are 
rather  more  frequently  disturbing  on  a  near  view,  be- 
cause of  their  broken  lines,  their  half  uprights  and 


268    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

shattered  horizontals,  with  the  emphasis  now  on  one, 
now  on  the  other.  Such  complete  chaos  of  lines  breeds 
restlessness,  and  on  a  dull  day  which  takes  out  the  colour, 
actual  depression.  One  of  the  most  miserable  days  I  ever 
spent  was  under  a  cloud  in  the  pocket  canon  which  holds 
Cracker  Lake,  in  Glacier  Park.  The  Divide  soared  up- 
ward into  the  creeping  gray  roof  with  a  tremendous,  an 
overwhelming  vertical  magnificence,  but  all  around  its 
base  were  vast  shale  slides  at  an  angle  halfway  between 
vertical  and  horizontal,  pitching  into  the  flat  lake,  and 
behind,  through  the  canon  mouth,  was  every  con- 
ceivable tilt  and  angle  of  rock  and  shale  and  forest.  No 
line  predominated,  since  the  top  of  the  Divide  was 
buried  in  scud  and  could  not  take  the  eye  up  to  the  blue 
above.  You  felt  yourself  in  the  heart  of  upheaved  chaos. 
Of  all  the  individual  lines  that  mountains  achieve, 
probably  the  most  beautiful  and  potent  is  the  dome. 
The  mood  evoked  by  the  dome  is  the  grave,  calm  ac- 
ceptance of  infinity,  and  that  corresponding  sense  of 
mystery  and  wonder.  Curiously  enough,  it  is  most 
often  the  doming  summit  we  hold  in  affection,  too,  per- 
haps because  of  its  benignity.  It  has  such  amplitude 
of  base,  such  easy  lines  of  ascent,  such  an  aspect  of 
monumental  solidity,  and  such  sheer  beauty  in  its 
sweeping  curves,  that  it  is  almost  invariably  our 
favourite  among  its  fellows.  At  least,  that  is  the  case 
with  me.  Moosilauke  is  my  best  loved  mountain  in  the 
White  Hills  of  New  Hampshire,  and  always  seems  to  me 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING     269 

a  more  impressive  as  well  as  a  more  beautiful  pile  than 
Mount  Washington,  which  out-tops  it  by  fifteen  hun- 
dred feet.  In  my  own  Berkshire  Hills,  Mount  Everett 
(or  The  Dome,  as  it  is  popularly  called),  in  the  south- 
western corner  of  Massachusetts,  is  nearly  one  thousand 
feet  lower  than  Gray  lock,  in  the  northwestern;  yet  as 
you  view  it  from  the  plain  below  it  seems  far  more  like  a 
major  mountain,  it  actually  suggests  size  and  dignity 
and  eternal  solidity  to  a  much  greater  extent,  because 
it  rises  in  a  beautiful  and  perfect  dome  out  of  the  long 
rampart  of  the  range  and  lays  a  majestic  curve  against 
the  western  sky,  a  curve  as  sweet  as  that  of  a  woman's 
breast,  as  infinite  as  the  sea  rim. 

Man,  of  course,  has  used  the  dome  in  his  structures 
since  the  days  of  the  Romans,  undaunted  by  its  diffi- 
culties; Brunelleschi,  Michael  Angelo,  Wren  wrestled 
with  its  problems  in  later  times;  and  to-day  it  is  a  symbol 
of  the  enduring  solidity  of  the  state.  Man's  domes  are 
sprung  more  sharply  than  Nature's,  however,  and  the 
long,  sweet  curve  of  infinity  is  almost  lost  in  them. 
Oddly  enough,  where  that  curve  is  most  happily  caught 
in  an  architectural  structure  is  in  the  span  of  the  old 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  springing  out  of  the  flank  of  lower 
Manhattan,  the  most  architecturally  chaotic  section  of 
the  globe !  The  newer  bridges  upstream  have  missed  it, 
but  the  air-flung  boulevard  of  the  first  great  suspension 
structure  rises  and  hovers  and  dips  with  the  alluring, 
solemn,  and  lovely  span  of  the  infinite. 


270    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

i 

There  is  one  more  line  in  Nature  which  must  not  be 

forgotten — the  circle.  Whether  you  stand  upon  a 
mountain-top  or  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  or  in  the  centre  of 
the  Newark  marshes  ringed  by  crawling  freight  trains 
and  smoking  chimney  stacks,  you  have  only  to  glimpse 
the  horizon  in  a  circle  all  about  you  to  feel  at  once  a 
sudden  awareness  of  the  great  dome  of  the  sky  over- 
head, Omar's  inverted  bowl,  and  to  sense  yourself 
at  the  exact  centre  of  the  universe,  directly  beneath 
the  zenith.  If  a  plumb  line  were  dropped  from  the 
zenith,  it  would,  you  feel  sure,  pierce  your  hat — or  your 
head,  for  at  such  a  time  you  remove  your  hat  to  feel 
the  sun,  as  you  fill  your  lungs  deep  with  air.  The 
sensation  is  distinctly  pleasant,  with  distinct  motor 
reactions  of  expansion.  Here  the  sunshine  seems  con- 
centrated, here  is  the  focal  point  of  its  rays,  the  pivot 
of  the  bright,  blue  day. 

I  am  not  a  landscape  architect,  nor  even  a  skilled 
horticulturist,  but  in  thinking  over  some  of  these 
moods  I  have  tried  to  describe,  evoked  more  or  less 
directly  by  the  lines  and  contours  of  Nature,  and  in 
reflecting  how  such  lines  are  similarly  employed  in 
building  construction,  I  have  come  to  wonder  if  the 
natural  landscape  does  not  hold  lessons  for  our  garden 
makers  which  at  present  they  have  not  always  scanned. 
To  be  sure,  it  is  pretty  well  recognized  to-day,  or  so  I 
gather  from  the  gardens  I  visit,  that  a  chaos  of  lines 
in  the  ground  plan,  whether  in  beds,  walks,  or  tree 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING      271 

specimens,  creates  restlessness  and  is  quite  at  variance 
with  the  peace  of  a  long  horizontal  of  lawn  and  path, 
or  a  flat,  unbroken  surface.  But  it  has  also  seemed  to  me 
that  our  gardens  are  somewhat  over-given  to  the  horizon- 
tal, that  they  are  too  often  ironed  out  into  a  peaceful, 
flat  enclosure*  and  little  effort  is  made  to  catch  from  Na- 
ture some  of  her  loveliest  landscape  moods  and  overtones. 

The  Lombardy  poplar,  for  instance,  is  a  columnar 
tree,  and  eminently  adapted  to  carry  the  eye  straight 
up,  to  evoke  aspiration  like  a  spire.  But  to  plant  such 
trees  in  groups,  or  in  rows,  is  to  thr.ow  away  this  effect. 
That  is  like  building  a  whole  street  of  churches,  each 
spire  "killing"  its  neighbour.  In  his  book,  "What 
England  Can  Teach  Us  About  Gardening,"  Wilhelm 
Miller  prints  a  picture  of  "the  proper  use"  of  this  tree, 
in  Kew  Gardens,  by  the  lake  shore.  Here  a  single 
specimen  rises  out  of  the  lower  foliage,  as  Ruskin  said  a 
cathedral  spire  should  rise,  "dreaming  over  the  purple 
crowd  of  humble  roofs."  Even  in  the  photograph,  it 
strikes  the  note  of  aspiration.  In  some  of  the  old 
Italian  gardens  a  similar  note  is  struck  with  columnar 
evergreens — certain  of  our  cedars  or  arbor  vitses  strike 
it  with  unpremeditated  stateliness  on  a  rocky  hillside. 
But  the  trees  cannot  be  grouped,  nor  planted  in  rows. 
They  must  be  set  with  a  sparing  hand,  and  in  distinct 
relation  to  lower  masses. 

Again,  how  few  gardens  one  ever  sees  which  employ 
pines  as  Nature  employs  them,  to  throw  a  screen  of 


272    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

aspiring  uprights  against  a  lake  or  a  sunny  field  or  a 
sunset  glow  of  rose  and  gold.  Here  again  the  spaced 
row  is  fatal,  though  for  a  different  reason — the  careless 
composition  of  Nature  would  be  lost.  I  have  in  mind 
a  pine  grove  at  the  end  of  a  large  and  formal  garden, 
set  out  at  great  expense  many  years  ago  and  now  per- 
haps thirty  feet  high.  The  trees  are  spaced  as  rigidly  as 
line  and  rule  could  plant  them,  and  they  do  not  make  a 
screen,  moreover,  but  a  solid  mass.  Their  lower  branches 
were  never  trimmed  out  to  make  smooth,  aspiring 
uprights,  and  the  grove  is  but  a  poor  and  formal  imi- 
tation of  a  bit  of  uninteresting  young  forest,  with 
rhododendrons  growing  peakedly  underneath  by  the 
paths,  instead  of  our  native,  hardy  wood  flowers.  As 
this  garden  is  on  a  hillside  (but  flattened  out  into  arti- 
ficial terraces),  with  a  lovely  prospect  of  the  lower 
valley  and  the  sunset  over  the  blue  hills  beyond,  the 
opportunity  for  some  fine  and  imaginative  use  of  pines 
was  great — and  it  has  been  utterly  muffed.  Yet  this 
estate  cost  its  owner  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
dollars. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  passing  the  home  of  one  of 
America's  leading  sculptors  whose  garden  is  chiefly 
the  native  hemlock  forest  which  he  permits  to  march 
down  the  hill  upon  his  studio,  and  he  was  hi  his  shirt 
sleeves  at  the  foot  of  his  lawn,  superintending  the  con- 
struction of  a  ha-ha  wall.  He  seemed  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  the  line  on  which  the  wall  was  to  be  laid, 


Of  all  the     .     .     .     lines  that  mountains  achieve,  the  most 
beautiful     ...     is  the  dome 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING      273 

which  he  had  carefully  staked  out,  following  a  gentle 
undulation  of  the  slope  and  swinging  in  an  open  arc 
to  its  upper  base.  Here  was  a  man  who  could  appre- 
ciate pure  line!  A  year  later  I  passed  again,  purposely 
to  see  the  effect.  The  sod  above  now  grew  down  and 
covered  the  top  of  the  wall,  so  that  from  the  house  you 
were  aware  only  of  the  natural  undulations.  But 
from  below,  or  from  the  road,  the  line  of  the  wall  was 
visible,  a  sweet,  gracious  curve  that  might  have  been 
sculptored  by  a  full-flooded  river,  a  line  that  was 
Nature's  own  and  subtly  removed  the  taint  of  formal- 
ity and  tampering.  Similarly,  the  sweep  of  trees  and 
shrubbery  by  a  lawn-side,  so  often  now  either  a  matter 
of  ruled  perspective  or  jagged,  broken  capes  and  prom- 
ontories, might  be  planned  to  a  sweeter  curve,  alike 
on  its  ground  and  its  summit  line,  and  new  emotional 
values  be  secured.  In  such  a  border,  for  example, 
sharp-topped  trees  would  be  out  of  place,  but  a  swell  and 
dip  and  swell  again  of  round-headed  foliage,  with  some 
great  umbrella  elm  as  the  Moosilauke  of  the  range, 
would  give  a  sky  line  of  perpetual  allure,  with  a  hint 
of  the  mountain  mystery  in  its  green  bulwark.  It  is  a 
good  deal  to  have  cleared  out  from  so  many  of  our 
estates  the  "specimen"  trees  which  used  to  dot  the 
lawns  and  slopes  like  abandoned  lunch  boxes  on  the 
beach  at  Coney  Island.  But  need  our  conscious  plan- 
ning stop  with  the  opened  vista?  We  have  cleared  the 
valley,  but  we  can  still  arrange  the  walls. 


274    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

The  mood  of  the  circle  is  the  mood  we  should  feel, 
it  seems  to  me,  when  we  stand  by  a  sun-dial.  That  is 
the  instinct  of  most  people,  I  fancy,  for  dials  are  most 
often  placed  where  the  garden  rings  them  and  they  are 
at  the  focus.  A  dial  huddled  up  against  a  wall  or  set 
at  the  end  of  the  enclosure  never  seems  quite  right. 
After  all,  it  has  no  utilitarian  use  to-day,  it  is  a  sym- 
bol of  our  tribute  to  the  sun,  and  it  should  be  where  the 
sunshine  seems  to  concentrate,  so  that  standing  be- 
side it  we  may  remove  our  hat,  fill  our  lungs,  and  feel 
that  delicious  sensation  of  warm  expansion.  In  my 
ideal  garden  I  would  wish  to  glimpse  from  the  dial  a 
vista  of  the  horizon  to  the  four  points  of  the  compass, 
certainly  to  east  and  west,  that  I  might  be  aware  of 
the  world  rim  and  of  the  great  inverted  dome  of  the 
sky,  with  its  blue  intensity  and  its  lazy  cloud  flotillas 
riding  to  the  zenith  directly  over  the  crown  of  my 
head.  Then,  though  my  garden  were  set  in  lowly  places, 
I  would  know  for  an  instant  the  mood  of  the  peak! 

The  natural  landscape,  of  course,  is  seldom  a  matter 
of  one  line  exclusively.  Only  at  the  base  of  a  preci- 
pice or  on  the  naked  prairie  is  the  vertical  or  the  hori- 
zontal supreme.  The  earth's  contours  are  full  of  broken 
lines,  of  curves  and  swells,  which  give  contrast  and 
variety,  and  because  they  are  physiographically  so 
interrelated  they  flow  one  into  the  other.  Even  the 
precipice  meets  the  valley  floor  not  with  a  right  angle 
but  the  lovely  curve  of  debris.  To  a  certain  extent 


LANDSCAPE  LINES  AND  GARDENING      275 

Nature  looks  after  our  gardens  to  achieve  the  same  ef- 
fect, even  when  we  are  neglectful,  tending  always,  for 
instance,  to  throw  out  a  debris-curve  of  shrubbery  and 
grasses  from  a  group  of  trees.  But  in  the  gardens  I 
have  visited  (and  the  more  elaborate  they  are  the 
greater  the  extent  of  this  tampering)  I  find  a  wide- 
spread tendency  to  iron  out  natural  irregularities  of 
ground,  to  make  a  flat  floor  wherever  possible,  to  ter- 
race a  beautifully  sloping  hillside  and  build  a  wall  or  a 
rose  arbour  across  a  lovely  curve.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  loveliest  garden  is  the  better  if  somewhere  hi  it 
there  is  a  rise  or  dip,  untampered  with,  maintaining 
its  natural  flow  of  line,  to  suggest  the  variety  and  con- 
trast and  stimulating  irregularity  of  Nature.  How 
otherwise  shall  we  escape  monotony  of  mood?  I  may 
be  quite  wrong  in  assuming  that  the  best  gardens, 
like  the  best  literature,  ought  to  seem  spontaneous  and 
natural,  a  bit  of  selected  reality.  But  if  I  am  right, 
what  some  of  our  gardeners  need  are  fewer  drag  scrap- 
ers and  more  imagination.  Wise  is  the  man  who 
buildeth  his  garden  upon  a  hill,  or  near  it,  for  it  may 
be  by  some  happy  planning  he  can  achieve  a  lovely 
curve  of  lawn  or  spray-crest  of  rock  and  columbine  to 
cut  the  blue  sky,  or  an  inverted  curve  to  slide  into 
a  ferny  hollow,  and  thus  know  the  mystery  and  the 
stimulation  of  the  natural  prospect,  where  peace  and 
aspiration,  quietude  and  wonder,  dwell  side  by  side. 


CHAPTER  XVHI 
NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST 

HOW  much  of  the  influence  of  early  environ- 
ment, of  those  habituated  reactions  which  com- 
prise for  each  one  of  us  the  iron  ring  of  his  destiny, 
there  is  in  even  our  deeper  attitude  toward  the 
external  world — toward  what  we  call  Nature!  Not 
long  ago  I  spent  many  weeks  in  the  prairie  coun- 
try of  the  West,  a  sense  of  oppression  constantly  in- 
creasing in  weight  upon  my  spirit.  Those  endless, 
level  plains!  Those  roads  that  stretched  without  a 
break  to  infinity!  A  house,  a  group  of  barns,  a  fruit 
orchard,  now  and  then  a  clump  of  hardwoods,  alone 
broke  the  endless,  flat  monotony  of  snow-covered 
fields — no,  not  fields,  but  infinitudes  where  a  single 
furrow  could  put  a  girdle  about  an  entire  township  in 
my  home  land!  My  soul  hungered  for  a  hill;  my  heart 
craved,  with  a  dull  longing,  the  sight  of  a  naked  birch 
tree  flung  aloft  against  the  winter  sky.  Back  through 
the  endless  plains  of  Illinois  the  train  crawled,  away 
from  the  setting  sun.  But  the  next  daylight  disclosed 
the  gentle,  rolling  slopes  of  the  Mohawk  Valley,  and 
before  many  hours  had  passed  the  Berkshire  Hills 

276 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  277 

were  all  about  us,  like  familiar  things  recovered.  The 
camel-hump  of  Greylock  to  the  north  was  sapphire- 
blue  and  beckoning.  The  nearer  mountains  wore  their 
reddish  mantles,  pricked  with  green,  above  the  snowy 
intervales,  and  laid  their  upreared  outlines  stark  against 
the  sky.  Shadowy  ravines  let  into  their  flanks,  sug- 
gestive of  roaring  brooks  and  the  mystery  of  the  wilder- 
ness. The  clouds  trailed  purple  shadow-anchors;  the 
sun  flashed  from  the  ice  on  their  scarred  ledges.  And  a 
weight  seemed  suddenly  lifted  from  my  spirit.  The 
words  of  the  ancient  Psalmist  came  to  my  lips  uncon- 
sciously: "I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills. 
From  whence  cometh  my  help?  My  help  cometh  from 
God." 

Yes,  God  dwells  in  the  high  places!  The  Pemige- 
wasset  Indians  who  would  not  climb  Mount  Moosilauke 
because  the  Great  Spirit  abode  on  the  windswept  sum- 
mit, the  ancient  Hebrew  Psalmist  who  dwelt  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Syrian  hills,  and  I,  "the  heir  to  all  the 
ages,"  are  alike  in  this  primitive  sense  that  God's 
dwelling  place  is  up  there  where  our  eyes  instinctively 
lift;  for  the  glory  and  the  wonder  of  the  hills  is  upon  us 
all,  and  we  cannot  believe  otherwise. 

Yet  what  of  the  man  who  never  saw  a  hill?  What  of 
the  tribesman  of  the  plain  or  desert,  or  the  Illinois  farm- 
er's boy?  Where,  for  him,  is  God's  dwelling?  I  have 
seen  men  from  the  prairie  whom  the  hills  oppressed, 
who  hungered  for  their  level  roads  stretching  arrow- 


278    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

like  to  the  far  horizon,  just  as  I  hungered  for  the  blue 
heave  of  Greylock.  I  once  spent  several  days  in  camp 
in  the  tumbled  wilderness  under  Carrigain,  with  a  man 
who  all  his  life  had  followed  the  sea.  The  early  sun- 
sets and  the  late  dawns,  the  constant  sense  of  vast  rock 
walls  confronting  the  vision  and  cutting  off  half  the  sky, 
depressed  him.  He  was  homesick  for  the  sea.  God  for 
him,  I  suppose,  dwelt  on  the  deep  and  spoke  in  the  wail 
of  the  wind  through  the  rigging,  or  roared  with  the  voice 
of  many  waters.  Does  He  speak  to  the  prairie  boy  in 
the  rustle  of  the  endless  miles  of  corn?  Does  He  dwell 
in  that  pearly  cloud  which  hangs  forever  above  the  far 
horizon?  Is  His  dwelling  this  pervasive  immensity  of 
space?  Somewhere  He  dwells  for  each  of  us,  for  man 
perishes  who  does  not  find  for  Him  a  habitation;  but 
where  it  is  depends,  after  all,  on  habit — on  so  simple  a 
thing  as  the  silent  influence  in  early  years  of  external 
sights  and  sounds.  I  was  born  near  the  hills  and 
nurtured  on  their  breast,  and  I  am  never  happy  long 
away  from  them.  The  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world 
to  me  is  Mount  Moosilauke;  and  the  loveliest  music  ever 
made  is  the  song  of  the  hermit  thrushes  on  the  slopes  of 
Cannon  when  the  sunset  shadows  are  creeping  amid  the 
hemlock  aisles  and  far  below  on  an  upland  pasture  the 
cow-bells  tinkle  as  the  herd  winds  down  to  the  valley. 
Were  I  a  psalmist,  from  such  things  would  my  meta- 
phors be  drawn,  and  I  would  bid  the  world  once  more 
lift  up  its  eyes  unto  the  hills.  But  there  may  be  psalm- 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  279 

ists  of  the  sea  and  prairie,  of  the  frozen  North  and  the 
languid  tropics.  After  all,  what  matters  is  the  sense  of 
divinity  that  surrounds  us,  the  enkindled  spirit  which 
strikes  out  from  Nature  the  ultimate  metaphor. 

The  Psalms  are  lyric  poems.  Whatever  perversions 
may  have  resulted  from  the  conflict  between  Judaistic 
scriptures  and  a  superimposed  Ajyan  mysticism,  a  wise 
world  has  known  the  Psalms  all  the  time  for  what  they 
are.  The  God  of  the  psalmists  may  have  been  a  tribal 
God,  to  be  sure.  For  that  matter,  what  nation  to-day, 
after  two  thousand  years  of  so-called  Christianity,  but 
worships  a  tribal  God?  We  have  of  late  been  forced  to 
contemplate  the  sorry  spectacle  of  various  nations  on  the 
eve  of  battle  each  lifting  its  voice  in  prayer  to  its  tribal 
divinity,  with  that  terrible  certainty  and  lack  of  hu- 
mour which  characterize  such  narrow  devotions.  But 
the  Psalms  are  not  theology:  they  are  lyric  poetry — the 
expression  of  a  single  individual  (of  his  time  and  his 
people,  to  be  sure)  in  the  face  of  life.  Whether  he  was  a 
single  individual  for  all  the  Psalms,  or  a  separate  one  for 
each,  does  not  in  the  least  matter.  What  the  world 
cares  about  is  the  personal  reaction  of  a  human  soul,  for 
that,  direct  and  certain,  carries  its  message  to  all  other 
souls,  and  time  or  place,  name  or  nationality,  are  as 
naught. 

The  griefs  the  Psalmist  sang  are  still  our  griefs,  the 
doubts  and  consolations  still  are  ours,  and  the  world 
the  Psalmist  looked  upon  is  still  about  us.  The  sun 


280    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

rose  and  set  in  Judea,  and  the  Psalmist  chanted,  "Thou 
makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  evening  to 
rejoice."  Here  was  no  "subtle  observation "  of  meteor- 
ological conditions  peculiar  to  the  east  coast  of  the 
Mediterranean;  no  aesthetic  analysis,  no  scientific  spec- 
ulation. Here  was  simply  the  soul  of  a  man  touched 
by  the  beauty  and  the  mystery  of  a  natural  phenomenon 
till  poetry  kindled  on  his  lips  and  devotion  in  his  heart. 
It  is  that  simple  attitude  toward  Nature  which  I  some- 
times think  the  world  has  lost  in  these  latter  days,  veri- 
fying Goethe's  statement  that  "animated  inquiry  into 
causes  does  great  harm."  "Thou  makest  the  out- 
goings of  the  morning  and  evening  to  rejoice" — how 
calm  and  hushed  the  picture  evoked,  how  peaceful  and 
brooding,  how  like  a  benediction  it  falls  upon  the  spirit! 
I  think  of  my  own  mountain  land,  of  a  wooded  knoll 
that  rises  from  the  valley,  and  I  stand  bareheaded  in  the 
fields  while  the  golden  floods  of  the  sunset  fill  all  the  in- 
tervale with  liquid  light,  an  intervale  which  is  like  a 
green  chalice  amid  the  hills.  The  golden  flood  creeps 
up  the  eastern  slopes,  and  out  of  the  darkening  fields 
below  the  shadows  follow,  amethyst  shadows 'that  stray 
like  smoke  amid  the  birches.  At  last  the  gold  burns 
only  in  the  kindled  west,  in  a  gap  between  two  mountain 
summits — a  gateway  to  that  Land  of  Wonder  which 
lies  forever  around  the  world-rim  underneath  the  set- 
ting sun.  The  trees  upon  the  little  foreground  knoll  are 
silhouetted  now,  black  against  the  gold.  The  fields 


'Thou  makest  the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  evening  to  rejoice" 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  281 

are  very  still.  Only  a  far-off  cow-bell  tinkles  and  a 
vesper  sparrow  sings  softly  to  himself.  The  spirit,  too, 
is  very  still,  hushed  with  happy  awe.  "Thou  makest 
the  outgoings  of  the  morning  and  the  evening  to  re- 
joice." The  slow  feet  turn  homeward  through  a  world 
transformed,  a  world  not  of  bicker  and  restriction  and 
the  small,  strutting  ego,  but  of  imminent  divinity. 

Thou  visitest  the  earth,  and  waterest  it  [the  same  hymn 
continues  in  a  mood  of  adoration]. 

.     .     .    Thou  waterest  her  furrows  abundantly; 
Thou  settlest  the  ridges  thereof: 
Thou  makest  it  soft  with  showers; 
Thou  blessest  the  springing  thereof. 
Thou  crownest  the  year  with  thy  goodness; 
And  thy  paths  drop  fatness. 

We  may  wax  learned  over  this  passage,  declaring  that 
it  shows  the  influence  of  "the  simple  nature-religion  of 
a  long-established  agricultural  people,"  the  Hittites  of 
the  land  of  Canaan.  We  may  discourse  on  the  geog- 
raphy and  climate  of  Canaan,  and  show  that  in  a  time 
and  region  where  all  life  depended  upon  the  success  of 
the  crops,  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  this  ado- 
ration. Yet  all  our  discourse  and  discussion  will  seem 
futile  enough  on  a  day  late  in  April,  when  we  stand  in 
familiar  fields  and  watch  the  world  made  soft  with 
showers.  There  will  be  a  frail  green  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  earth  where  it  is  not  ridged  into  gleaming  brown 
furrows.  In  the  orchard  and  the  woods  there  will  be  a 
haze  of  emerald.  A  fringe  of  poplars  or  of  birches  by 


282    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

the  wall  have  put  on  their  virgin  veils,  and  suddenly 
they  bow  gracefully  in  the  rising  gust,  tossing  against  a 
sky  where  sunshine  and  blue  seem  to  be  chased  down 
from  the  zenith  and  back  again  from  the  horizon  by  the 
cloudy  cohorts  of  the  shower.  The  rain  comes  with  a 
long,  lateral  swish,  then  straightens  up  to  fall  gently,  till 
the  fields  send  forth  a  rich  earthy  fragrance,  the  incense 
of  the  Spring.  If  it  be  the  simple  Nature- worship  of  a 
primitive  agricultural  people  to  feel,  in  this  beautiful 
and  benignant  spectacle,  this  picture  so  soft  and 
virginal  and  fragrant,  repeated  through  the  years  and 
the  centuries,  the  hand  that  loosed  the  floodgates  of  the 
shower,  to  view  it  calmly  with  the  faith  of  a  child  un- 
troubled by  too  animated  an  inquiry  into  causes,  then 
let  us  be  thankful  that  some  instincts  of  our  racial  child- 
hood still  persist.  Facts,  facts,  facts — why  must  we  be 
forever  going  to  Nature  in  search  of  facts!  Let  us  go 
to  Nature  now  and  then  in  search  of  the  great,  simple 
mysteries. 

And  thy  paths  drop  fatness. 

They  drop  upon  the  pastures  of  the  wilderness: 

And  the  hills  are  girded  with  joy. 

The  pastures  are  clothed  with  flocks; 

The  valleys  also  are  covered  over  with  corn; 

They  shout  for  joy,  they  also  sing. 

It  is  a  lush  midsummer  day.  The  cattle  are  lying 
beneath  a  great  oak  in  the  upland  pasture.  Across  the 
valley  other  hills  go  up  with  pastures  flung  like  mantles 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  283 

over  their  shoulders.  The  corn  is  in  the  green  valley, 
with  the  winding  thread  of  the  river,  and  the  glittering 
track  of  the  railroad,  the  white  church-spire  above  the 
village  elms,  and  a  certain  roof  that  I  call  home.  The 
dome  of  heaven  is  overhead;  the  sunshine  is  every- 
where. "They  shout  for  joy,  they  also  sing."  I  am 
quite  content  to  drop  into  a  lazy  bed  of  sweet-fern  and 
become  a  Hittite  for  the  time,  a  countryman  of  the 
manly  Uriah,  whose  dignified  devotion  to  duty,  as 
Chamberlain  has  pointed  out,  contrasted  so  favourably 
with  the  "criminal  levity"  of  King  David! 

In  our  mountain  world  the  Lord  indeed  "stretcheth 
out  the  heavens  like  a  curtain"  and  "maketh  the  clouds 
his  chariot."  It  is  not  for  us  that  he  "layeth  the  beams 
of  his  chambers  in  the  waters";  dwellers  by  lake  or  sea 
can  best  realize  the  force  of  that  majestic  metaphor; 
but  he  walketh  upon  the  wings  of  our  winds  and  maketh 
them  his  messengers.  I  know  a  great  oak  that  stands 
alone  and  self-sufficient  in  a  pasture  (what  is  so  self- 
sufficient  as  a  sturdy,  well-developed  tree  isolated  in  a 
clearing?),  and  when  the  northwest  winds  come  charg- 
ing down  the  valley  it  tosses  its  branches  protestingly 
against  the  buffet,  and  the  silent,  rushing  current  be- 
comes audible,  is  given  a  voice.  It  is  only  when  the 
hurricane  meets  opposition  that  its  voice  is  heard; 
its  sweep  is  soundless  through  the  upper  air.  Behind 
the  great  tree  domes  the  blue  sky  where  the  clouds 
drive,  an  endless  flotilla  hurrying  down  the  gale.  The 


picture  is  full  of  colour,  of  spaciousness,  of  "go."  How 
far  off  and  deep  the  sky  appears!  How  melodious  is 
the  tossing,  wailing  rustle  of  the  giant  tree!  How 
sweet  in  my  ear,  as  I  sit  amid  the  hardback,  is  the 
sudden  little  whistle  as  a  gust  sweeps  down  even  into 
my  lowly  shelter!  In  such  a  mood  I  am  asking  no 
questions  of  Nature;  I  am  humble  before  the  spectacle, 
content  to  observe  why  the  Psalmist  said  that  the  Lord 
maketh  the  clouds  his  chariot.  My  imagination  is  ex- 
panded; my  soul  goes  up  to  ride  upon  the  racing  cumuli! 

He  appointed  the  moon  for  seasons: 

The  sun  knoweth  his  going  down. 
Thou  makest  darkness,  and  it  is  night; 

Wherein  all  the  beasts  of  the  forest  do  creep  forth. 
The  young  lions  roar  after  their  prey, 

And  seek  their  meat  from  God. 
The  sun  ariseth,  they  get  them  away, 

And  lay  them  down  in  their  dens. 
Man  goeth  forth  unto  his  work 

And  to  his  labour  until  the  evening. 

What  a  simple  statement  this  is  of  the  rotation  of 
the  hours,  and  yet  how  all-sufficient,  in  certain  of  our 
moods,  even  to  this  day !  A  mile  or  two  back  from  the 
coast  in  the  old  Narragansett  country  of  Rhode  Isl- 
and, amid  the  pitchpines  and  oaks,  there  is  a  fresh- 
water pond  of  great  beauty.  Here  on  its  shores  until 
a  generation  ago  the  last  of  the  Narragansetts  had 
their  reservation,  their  council-ring,  and  their  school - 
house.  The  pond  still  bears  the  name  they  gave  it, 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  285 

Quacom-paug— "The  Lake  of  the  Great  White  Gull"— 
and  their  trails  lead  away  from  its  shores  into  the 
surrounding  swamps,  overgrown  now  with  blackberry 
vines  or  eroded  deep  into  the  sandy  soil.  Once  I 
tramped  in  through  the  woods  to  this  pond  as  the 
afternoon  was  failing  and  launched  a  canoe  on  its 
dark,  still  mirror.  The  sunset  reddened  till  it  glowed 
like  a  far-off  conflagration  between  the  pine  boles  on 
the  western  bank.  The  shadows  of  twilight  stole  out 
of  the  forest  behind  me.  Creeping  along  shore,  it 
seemed  that  night  was  already  come,  but  by  shooting 
the  canoe  out  free  of  the  lily  pads  and  the  reflections 
of  the  forest  edge,  the  lake  surface  appeared  to  give  up 
daylight  still.  Presently  the  canoe  slipped  around  a 
wooded  promontory — noiselessly,  without  even  a  drip 
from  the  paddle — and  there,  knee-deep  in  the  dark- 
brown  water,  stood  two  deer,  their  tails  startlingly 
white  against  the  black  wall  of  the  forest.  They  were 
drinking,  but  one  of  them  looked  up,  surprised,  and 
gazed  at  me  with  his  great  eyes,  as  deer  will  often  do 
before  they  make  a  move.  He  let  me  slide  the  canoe 
still  closer  before  he  turned,  and,  with  evidently  a 
whispered  word  to  his  companion,  crashed  up  the 
bank  and  disappeared,  the  doe  following  obediently. 
A  flash  of  white  tail  in  the  night  blackness  of  the 
forest  was  the  last  thing  I  saw,  but  for  a  full  minute  I 
could  hear,  in  diminuendo,  the  cracking  of  undergrowth 
and  twigs. 


286    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

I  paddled  slowly  back  to  my  landing,  with  the  stars 
twinkling  and  bobbing  in  the  water  off  the  bow,  and 
curled  up,  after  a  quiet,  lonely  supper,  for  the  night, 
pleasantly  aware  of  the  soft,  melancholy  whistle  of  a 
screech-owl,  the  sounds  of  little  creatures  coming  down 
to  the  lake  to  drink,  the  splash  of  a  fish  jumping  for  in- 
sects, and  once,  as  I  woke  and  turned,  of  a  swish 
through  the  grasses,  as  if  a  fox  had  been  prowling 
near  the  provisions. 

The  next  morning  the  birds  were  busy  at  their 
matins,  but  along  all  the  shore-line,  where  the  green 
forest  came  down  to  dip  its  toes  in  the  lake,  not  a  crea- 
ture was  visible.  There  was,  however,  a  fresh  track 
in  the  mud  near  my  canoe,  as  if  a  wizened  foot  had  been 
set  down  there:  a  coon  had  visited  the  water,  perhaps 
to  drink,  perhaps  to  wash  a  morsel  of  food.  In  half  an 
hour  after  breakfast  I  came  out  of  the  woods  upon 
the  Post  Road.  It  was  too  early  for  the  day's  pro- 
cession of  touring  automobiles  (whose  passengers  would 
rush  past  this  knoll  where  I  stood  nor  ever  guess  that 
the  trail  behind  me  led  into  the  real  Narragansett 
country,  which  they  would  never  see) ;  but  in  the  fields 
men  were  astir.  Already  I  could  hear  the  hot  "click, 
click,  click"  of  a  mowing-machine.  A  hay-rake  rattled 
past  on  the  road.  Smoke  was  coming  from  the  chim- 
neys of  the  gray  houses  that  looked  almost  like  great 
bowlders  on  the  low,  green  plain  between  the  Post  Road 
and  the  yellow  sand  bar  a  mile  or  two  away.  The 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  287 

sun  was  up,  the  world  of  men  was  astir  and  had  gone 
forth  to  its  labour  until  evening.  I  lifted  my  eyes  to 
the  yellow  sand  bar,  while  my  nostrils  sniffed  the  salt. 
Yonder  was  the  sea,  "great  and  wide";  yes,  and  there 
went  the  ships,  trailing  their  long  smoke-plumes  far 
out  where  Block  Island  lay  like  a  blue  cloud  on  the 
horizon  line.  The  Psalmist's  cycle  had  been  completed, 
and  I  walked  homeward  strangely  at  peace,  the  salt 
wind  and  the  sunshine  for  my  companions. 

It  is  Winter  now,  and  the  snow  has  come,  the  deep 
snow  which  settles  over  our  mountain  world,  trans- 
forming all  the  landscape  for  three  or  four  months,  al- 
tering its  colour  values,  softening  its  outlines,  and  giv- 
ing us  a  season  which  those  who  dwell  in  cities  know 
nothing  of.  How  expectantly  we  awaited  the  first 
steady  storm  from  the  northwest!  The  bare,  frozen 
earth  awaited  it  expectantly,  too,  each  flower-root  chill 
for  its  coverlid.  I  once  heard  of  a  little  girl  who  ex- 
claimed, when  she  saw  her  first  snowfall,  "Look, 
mamma!  God  has  busted  His  feather-bed!"  I  like 
that  exclamation.  It  is  picturesque,  and  it  is  instinct 
with  primitive  devotion.  Does  it  not  suggest,  indeed, 
the  words  of  the  Psalmist: 

He  giveth  snow  like  wool; 

He  scattereth  the  hoarfrost  like  ashes. 

"He  giveth  snow  like  wool."  We  go  out  in  the  first 
storm,  away  from  our  warm  house  amid  its  spruces,  and 


288    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

swing  rapidly  -into  the  open  country,  our  faces  up- 
turned to  feel  the  gentle  sting  of  the  flakes  on  cheek 
and  lip.  We  cannot  see  far  into  the  dull,  whitish-gray 
sky;  we  are  looking  into  opacity,  a  vast  opacity  which 
overhangs  the  world  and  drops  cool  wool  upon  our 
cheeks.  The  familiar  landscape  about  us,  too,  is  sud- 
denly strange.  The  well-loved  peaks  have  disappeared. 
Perspective  is  curiously  marked  by  the  quality  of  sharp- 
ness in  upstanding  objects.  Close  to  us  along  the 
road  runs  a  wall  and  a  row  of  nude  sugar-maples,  dark 
and  solid  against  the  drift  of  the  storm.  Between  the 
trunks  we  can  see,  perhaps,  a  group  of  corn-shocks 
standing  in  the  field,  and  they  are  of  fainter  tone. 
Beyond  them  the  hedge-row  of  poplars  and  choke- 
cherries  which  marks  the  farther  boundary  is  fainter 
still,  almost  as  shadowy  as  the  storm  itself.  Beyond 
that  there  is  nothing  but  the  white  mystery.  Out 
of  the  vast  opacity  above  us  the  flakes  fall  without 
ceasing,  and  our  boots  have  already  become  silent  on 
the  frozen  road.  In  this  great  transformation  of  the 
visible  universe  we  are  isolated  beings  carrying  with  us 
as  we  move  a  narrow  circle  of  familiar  objects,  yet 
aware  always  of  the  immensity  beyond.  One  is  never 
so  intimate  with  Nature,  so  conscious  of  the  pervasive- 
ness of  her  phenomena,  as  in  a  snowstorm.  In  the 
little  circle  of  visible  objects,  reduced  to  their  barest 
essentials  of  mass  and  shade  value,  we  are  the  exact  cen- 
tre always;  and  in  some  manner  not  easy  to  explain 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  289 

— perhaps  impossible  to  explain  to  any  one  not  ac- 
customed to  a  voluntary  life  in  the  open — that  gives 
us  a  curious  sense  of  relationship  with  Nature,  of 
dependence  upon  her,  a  deep,  impregnable  belief  that 
in  her  manifestations  we  come  closest  to  divinity. 

When  the  snow  has  laid  its  winter  mantle  on  our 
hills  and  built  magic  cornices  along  our  brooks,  Orion 
greets  us  from  the  evening  sky  and  the  Dog  Star  hangs 
like  a  lamp  amid  the  spires  of  the  firs.  I  return  some- 
times from  New  York — from  the  noise  and  glare  and 
hurry  of  its  streets,  from  the  feverishness  of  its  spirit, 
the  oppression  of  its  imprisoning  canon  walls — and  old 
Orion  is  like  a  friend  awaiting  me.  Often  I  think  of 
Martineau's  words: 

Silence  is  in  truth  the  attribute  of  God;  and  those  who 
seek  Him  from  that  side  invariably  learn  that  meditation  is 
not  the  dream  but  the  reality  of  life;  not  its  illusion,  but  its 
truth;  not  its  weakness,  but  its  strength.  Such  act  of  the 
mind  is  quite  needful,  in  order  to  rectify  the  estimates  of  the 
senses  and  the  lower  understanding,  to  shake  off  the  drowsy 
order  of  perceptions,  in  which,  with  the  eyes  of  the  soul  half 
closed,  we  are  apt  to  doze  away  existence  here.  Neglecting 
it  now,  we  shall  wake  into  it  hereafter,  and  find  that  we  have 
been  walking  in  our  sleep.  It  is  necessary  even  for  preserving 
the  truthfulness  of  our  practical  life. 

To  meditate  in  the  night  watches,  to  ascend  through 
the  frosty  darkness  the  pasture  slope  behind  the  garden 
and  from  the  hill  to  watch  the  slow  procession  of  the 
stars  across  the  sky — worlds  which  reck  so  little  of 


290    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

those  valley  lamps  down  here  where  our  small  village 
nestles — is  to  know  indeed  that 

The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God, 
And  the  firmament  sheweth  His  handiwork. 

From  Jupiter  our  earth  would  be  but  a  tiny  star;  from 
Sirius  it  would  be,  no  doubt,  invisible.  What  "insect 
cares"  are  these  that  trouble  us,  in  the  face  of  such  im- 
mensity? As  the  imagination  leaps  into  depth  beyond 
depth  of  space,  layer  after  layer  of  passion  and  small- 
ness  seem  cast  off  from  our  spirits,  and  in  the  silence 
of  the  midnight  our  soul  taps  anew  the  primal  sources  of 
its  strength. 

"Silence  came  before  creation,  and  the  heavens  were 
spread  without  a  word."  The  stars  and  the  sunshine, 
the  grass  and  the  trees,  the  snow  that  is  sent  like  wool, 
the  blessing  of  soft  showers,  all  the  lovely  spectacle  of 
the  seasons,  the  dome  of  the  hills,  the  curve  of  the  sea- 
rim,  were  man's  inheritance  before  he  builded  cities  and 
made  himself  triumphant  and  ubiquitous.  Of  course, 
to  say  that  God  dwells  only  on  the  hills  or  speaks  with 
the  voice  of  many  waters,  to  make  of  Nature- worship  a 
denial  of  His  habitation  in  the  human  heart,  a  denial  of 
man's  urgent  need  for  the  Presence  in  the  market- 
place, would  be  the  merest  folly.  But,  especially  per- 
haps in  these  latter  days  when  we  speak  so  much  of  a 
"love  of  Nature"  and  know  so  little  what  that  means, 
when  neither  the  scientific  inquiry  of  the  naturalist  nor 


NATURE  AND  THE  PSALMIST  291 

the  summer  exodus  through  the  countryside  in  auto- 
mobiles is  enough  to  give  the  world  again  the  quick, 
poetic,  instinctive  sense  of  the  divinity  of  rocks  and 
trees  and  springing  crops,  we  can  more  than  ever  feel 
the  need  for  a  return  to  primal  wonder.  God  will  not 
speak  in  the  market  till  he  has  whispered  in  the  still 
places.  To  invest  stocks  and  stones  with  the  incom- 
municable Name  is  not  an  act  of  childishness,  but  of  the 
deepest  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  that  worships 
and  is  amazed,  that  re-creates  in  meditation  the  powers 
by  which  men  live.  In  the  fever  of  our  modern  life  we 
cannot  return  to  Nature  too  intimately.  We  have  as 
yet,  in  spite  of  our  pose,  hardly  begun  that  return.  The 
ancient  nurse  awaits  our  humbleness. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


I  LIKE  the  coming  of  Winter,  nor  can  I  easily  read 
into  it  the  symbols  of  sadness  which  the  poets  find. 

Ah,  minstrel,  how  strange  is 
The  carol  you  sing ! 
Let  Psyche  who  ranges 
The  gardens  of  Spring 
Remember  the  changes 
December  will  bring! 

Yet  Psyche  was  of  immortal  stuff,  and  might  easily  have 
comforted  herself  with  Shelley's  reflection,  "If  Winter 
comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?"  The  seasons  wax 
and  wane,  each  with  its  own  peculiar  charm,  and  the  last 
rose  of  Summer  is,  after  all,  but  the  promise  of  a  larger 
bush  next  year,  rather  than  the  sad  reminder  of  man's 
mortality.  We  may  be  permitted  some  sober  moments, 
some  lingering  melancholy,  when  we  walk  in  the  garden 
and  see  the  sweet  alyssum  borders  withered  down,  the 
Japanese  anemones  cut  off  in  their  perfection  by  the 
frost,  the  leaves  of  the  poplars  by  the  pool  blowing 
across  the  sward  or  floating  on  the  dark  water.  But 
even  then  we  remember  that  the  potatoes  are  dug  and 

292 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     293 

stowed  away  in  the  cellar,  and  from  the  orchard  comes 
the  pungent  fragrance  of  apples;  and  lifting  our  eyes  to 
the  hills,  we  see  the  banners  of  Autumn  already  flying  on 
their  wooded  slopes. 

The  garden  dies  down  for  its  winter  sleep,  the  harvest 
is  reaped,  and  the  season  slips  into  that  indefinite  stage 
between  autumn  glory  and  winter  snow,  when  a  blue 
haze  hangs  in  the  leafless  trees,  the  chill  winds  of  No- 
vember blow,  and  there  is  ice  on  the  little  water  pools  of 
a  morning.  It  is  in  this  season,  this  hush  of  Nature  be- 
fore the  winter  storms,  that  Thanksgiving  comes,  our 
most  characteristic  and  best-loved  American  holiday. 
Surely  there  is  no  melancholy  in  Thanksgiving,  though 
there  may  be  just  a  touch  of  soberness  as  we  think  back 
to  those  grim  days  when  the  Pilgrims  reaped  their  first 
scanty  harvest  between  the  sea  beach  and  the  forest 
edge,  and  thanked  God  for  the  mere  gift  of  life.  The 
last  warmth  of  Indian  Summer  has  gone  from  the  air, 
the  last  golden  leaves  have  dropped  from  the  maples, 
the  smell  of  bonfires  is  no  longer  pungent;  yet  every 
country-bred  American,  I  fancy,  knows  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  that  the  Thanksgiving  season  has  a  peculiar, 
a  unique  charm. 

From  the  Tennessee  Cumberlands  north  to  Canada 
leaves  have  fallen  and  lie  restless  on  the  ground,  not  yet 
shrivelled  nor  rotted,  but  crisp  beneath  the  foot  and  in 
the  morning  indescribably  fragrant  with  frost.  The 
sky  has  lost  its  autumn  clarity;  there  is  a  touch  of  lead 


in  it,  a  hint  of  gathering  winter  storms.  Out  in  the 
bare,  brown  fields  a  few  corn-shocks  stand,  and  perhaps 
now  and  then  a  golden  pumpkin;  and  already  the  crows 
and  the  pheasants  have  discovered  this  food  supply. 
The  deep  woods  are  very  still.  The  insect  under-song 
of  Summer  has  died  in  the  grass,  the  bird  songs  in  the 
trees.  Only  the  wiry  little  cheeps  of  the  chickadees  are 
heard  in  the  woods,  or  now  and  then  the  distant  blows 
of  a  woodpecker  or  the  startled  uprush  and  booming 
flight  of  a  partridge.  The  woodchucks  have  dug  them- 
selves in  for  the  Winter.  The  squirrels  have  already 
hoarded  their  nuts,  though  occasionally  you  will  see  one 
sitting  on  a  pine  stump  shredding  a  cone.  Occasionally, 
too,  you  will  see  ahead  a  strange  glint  of  light  and  come 
upon  a  maple  tree  so  well  protected  that  it  has  not  yet 
lost  its  golden  foliage.  On  a  leaden  November  day  it 
seems  for  all  the  world  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  down 
the  forest  aisle.  Perhaps,  far  off,  the  crack  of  a  hunter's 
gun  will  wake  the  echoes.  There  may  be  ice  on  the  lip 
of  the  spring  under  the  fern  bank,  and  the  sweet  water  is 
very  cold.  As  you  come  back  into  the  fields  again,  you 
hear  the  shouts  of  the  football  players,  playing  the  an- 
nual Thanksgiving  game,  the  last  of  the  season.  Smoke 
is  ascending  from  all  the  chimneys,  and  your  nostrils 
scent  food.  Could  Thanksgiving  come  at  any  time  but 
this  gray,  frosty  November  season,  in  this  hush  of 
Nature  before  the  winter  storms?  We  who  were  born 
in  the  country,  at  any  rate,  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     295 

It  is  not  long  after  Thankgsiving,  in  my  mountain 
home,  that  Winter  comes  upon  us  in  full  force.  It  may 
have  been  that  he  sent  cavalry  scouts  of  snow  before 
Thanksgiving — as  early  as  November  seventh  they  have 
arrived,  I  recall — but  these  have  melted  away  before  a 
morning's  bombardment  of  sun.  In  December,  how- 
ever, Winter  brings  up  his  main  forces,  and  we  wake 
some  morning  to  find  the  leaden  sky  milky  in  the  north- 
west and  a  strange  expectancy  of  chill  in  the  air.  Pres- 
ently, over  the  battlement  of  our  guardian  mountain, 
comes  the  first  puff  of  artillery,  then  the  whole  long 
ridge  is  hidden  in  the  smoke,  and  ten  minutes  later  the 
enemy  is  up  and  over,  the  storm  has  enveloped  us, 
Winter,  the  conqueror,  is  here! 

We  wake  the  second  morning  into  a  world  trans- 
formed, a  world  of  white  dazzle,  with  every  angular  line 
in  the  landscape  softened  into  a  curve  by  the  snow,  every 
fir  tree  a  lovely  minaret,  every  vista  carpeted  with 
crystal.  "It  is  a  Christmas-card  world!"  we  say. 

A  Christmas-card  world!  How  can  Winter  be 
cheerless  when  it  reminds  us  of  Christmas?  Christmas, 
the  wise  ones  tell  us,  is  only  half  a  Christian  festival 
—it  represents  in  part  a  pagan  survival,  like  Easter. 
The  thought,  instead  of  being  disconcerting  to  the 
orthodox,  should  be  pleasant,  for  the  continuity  of 
man's  spiritual  nature  is  thus  attested.  Certainly,  to 
us  northern  peoples,  the  spirit  of  Christmas  and  the 
spirit  of  Winter  are  inextricably  knit.  The  strange 


296    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

white  purity  of  Nature  under  snow,  the  aspect  of  a 
world  transformed  from  its  rigid  outlines,  with  its  bare- 
ness and  ugliness  softly  hidden,  gives  us  all  an  im- 
memorial thrill;  the  delight  and  the  wonder  never  grow 
less.  And  with  such  a  world  transformed  is  Christmas 
associated.  We  pray  for  a  "white  Christmas."  We 
frost  our  Christmas  cards.  We  depict  the  Star  of 
Bethlehem  as  shining  over  a  snow-laden  land.  Our 
artists  even  fancy  steam  ascending  from  the  nostrils  of 
the  gentle  cattle  in  the  stable.  Such  minor  lapses 
from  physiographical  accuracy  do  not  trouble  us  in 
the  least,  because  for  us  the  great,  outstanding  fact 
about  Christmas  is  that  it  is  the  sweet,  solemn,  joyous 
festival  of  Winter.  That  for  the  inhabitants  of  the 
underside  of  our  spinning  ball  it  comes  in  Summer  is  a 
fact  totally  beyond  the  range  of  our  comprehensions. 
I  used  to  wonder  as  a  child  how  the  people  of  Aus- 
tralia could  have  any  Christmas  at  all ! 

The  origin  of  the  Christmas  tree  I  do  not  now  re- 
member. Is  the  tree  a  gift  from  Paganism,  also?  At 
any  rate,  it  is  another  link  connecting  Christmas  with 
the  winter  world.  The  unfortunate  inhabitants  of 
towns,  who  must  needs  buy  their  tree  from  the  corner 
grocer,  miss  one  of  the  season's  rarest  delights.  In  our 
mountain  world,  a  couple  of  days  before  the  holiday 
we  put  on  our  moccasins,  our  snow-shoes,  our  mittens 
and  caps,  and,  armed  with  an  axe,  we  set  forth  into  the 
woods.  The  woods  are  quite  silent  now,  for  even 


The  cold,  white  world  without,  sparkling  under  the  frosty  stars 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     297 

the  chickadees  have  deserted  them,  coming  in  about 
our  dwellings.  The  only  sound  is  made  by  the  snow 
falling  from  wind-stirred  branches  or  melted  off  by  the 
sun.  We  hear  it  falling,  with  tiny,  soft  thuds,  as  we 
go  along.  The  forest  aisles  are  like  a  frost  cathedral. 
Low  branches  shake  "their  frosty  pepper'*  in  our  faces. 
On  the  ground  are  many  tracks,  mute  records  of  the 
wood  creatures.  Here  a  squirrel  has  run  from  a  tree 
to  his  storehouse  under  a  stump.  There  a  pheasant 
slept  last  night,  scratching  away  the  snow  to  the  bed 
of  leaves  below.  Here  a  rabbit  has  gone  bounding 
along.  There  a  deer  has  passed,  stopping  to  browse 
off  a  ground  hemlock.  But  there  is  no  sound  of  them 
now.  The  woods  are  still,  save  for  the  soft  thuds  of  the 
tiny  falling  drifts  from  the  branches — still  and  white, 
and  lit  by  the  winter  sun.  Presently  we  come  upon  the 
stand  of  young  evergreens  we  are  seeking,  and  hunting 
out  the  perfect  specimen  we  desire,  thick  branched  to 
the  very  ground,  our  axe  rings  out  in  the  frosty  silence 
and  the  fragrant  spruce  or  balsam  topples  down.  We 
tug  it  home  with  laughter,  meeting  others  with  similar 
loads,  and  as  we  draw  near  our  dwelling,  and  the  low 
afternoon  sun  is  casting  purple  shadows  over  the  snow 
and  the  eastern  mountains  are  melting  into  amethyst, 
we  smell  the  pungent  fragrance  of  wood  fires  burn- 
ing and  hear  on  the  village  street  the  jingle  of  sleigh- 
bells. 

We  always  have  a  little  Christmas  tree,  too,  for  the 


birds.  Winter  is  the  season  when  the  birds  need  most 
protection,  for  their  natural  food  supply  is  largely  cut 
off,  and  our  house  is  ringed  with  suet  boxes  and  feed- 
ing tables.  But  just  outside  the  dining-room  window, 
on  the  very  ledge,  is  the  chief  feeding  place,  and  here 
are  sunflower  seeds  and  suet  at  all  hours;  and  at  all 
hours  the  chickadees,  juncos,  nuthatches,  and  wood- 
peckers may  be  seen  feeding.  The  chickadees  will 
feed  from  our  hands,  and  if  the  window  is  open  they  will 
hop  boldly  inside,  even  taking  food  from  the  table  while 
we  are  at  dinner.  They  are  so  pretty,  so  friendly, 
such  brave  and  cheerful  little  creatures,  that  a  far  less 
tender  soul  than  Saint  Francis  would  desire  to  share 
with  them  his  Christmas  joys.  So  we  give  them  a 
Christmas  tree  all  their  own.  It  is  a  tiny  fir  tree,  set 
in  a  pail  outside  the  window.  It  is  hung  with  bits  of 
suet  and  seeds,  and  on  the  top  is  a  little  red  candle, 
which  we  light  before  dark  on  Christmas  Eve,  because 
birds  retire  early,  and  the  chickadees  must  have  their 
celebration  before  bedtime! 

It  is  the  proper  thing,  I  know,  to  sit  around  the 
family  hearth  (or  the  family  radiator)  at  Christmas 
time  and  read  "The  Christmas  Carol."  But  I  have  to 
make  the  shameless  confession  that  I  cannot  read 
"The  Christmas  Carol"  any  more.  For  me,  it  no 
longer  represents  Christmas,  nor  the  spirit  of  Christmas. 
You  remember  that  old  Scrooge,  after  his  conversion, 
among  various  other  remarkable  performances  gave 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     299 

Bob  Cratchit,  his  clerk,  a  playful  dig  in  the  ribs  and  a 
rise  in  pay.  It  was  Dr.  Crothers,  I  believe,  who  first 
suggested  that  it  would  have  been  rather  embarrassing 
for  Scrooge  (and  incidentally,  we  may  add,  for  Dickens) 
if  Bob,  instead  of  showing  a  very  proper  lower-middle- 
class  gratitude,  had  demanded  all  the  back  pay  which 
Scrooge,  by  this  act,  had  confessed  was  really  his  due — 
in  other  words,  if  he  had  demanded  justice,  not  charity. 
The  longer  I  live,  the  more  I  am  learning  the  truth  of 
a  statement  once  made  to  me  by  the  best  man  I  have 
ever  known,  and  the  truest  Christian,  a  man  who  lit- 
erally gives  half  of  his  time  and  nearly  half  of  his  income 
to  the  salvation  of  the  sinful,  the  homeless,  the  outcast. 
"Charity,"  he  said,  "is  the  most  abominable  word  in 
the  English  language." 

I  once  knew  a  New  York  woman  of  wealth  and  social 
position  to  argue  against  socialism  on  the  ground  that 
socialism  strove  to  abolish  the  rich  and  poor  alike. 
"And  without  the  poor,"  she  said,  "we  can  have  no 
charity,  which  is  at  the  very  basis  of  Christianity." 

I  was  amazed  at  her  words,  nor  have  I  quite  recovered 
yet,  for  I  have  been  realizing  more  and  more  that  be- 
hind a  vast  deal  of  our  Christmas  literature  lurks,  in 
reality,  this  very  spirit.  And  we  have  been  calling 
this  thing,  which,  when  stripped  of  its  gloss,  its  senti- 
mentalities, its  glad  holiday  wrappings,  is  so  appal- 
ling, the  Spirit  of  Christmas!  After  all,  isn't  it  the 
spirit  behind  even  the  beloved  "Carol"?  I  am  afraid 


300    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

that  it  is.     I  find  it  there,  at  any  rate,  and  I  never 
read  the  "Carol"  any  more. 

"The  meek  and  gentle  Jesus,"  whose  meekness  and 
whose  gentleness  have  been  far  too  much  insisted 
on,  would  have  quite  other  ideas  of  the  spirit  of  Christ- 
mas. If  ever  a  flame  was  born  into  the  world  to  incite 
men  to  a  passion  not  for  charity  but  for  love,  not  for  the 
spirit  which  finds  satisfaction  in  handing  down  to 
those  below,  but  in  raising  those  below  to  full  equality, 
not  for  almsgiving  but  for  justice,  that  flame  burst 
into  light  in  the  manger  of  Bethlehem.  When  shall  we 
realize  that  Jesus  was  a  radical?  That  He  was  so  rad- 
ical that  He  is  even  yet  not  understood  ?  When  shall  we 
realize  that  the  chant  of  the  multitude  of  the  heavenly 
host,  heard  of  those  shepherds  who  were  abiding  in 
their  fields  by  night,  can  never  be  fulfilled  so  long  as  one 
half  of  the  human  race  has  so  much  that  it  finds  self- 
satisfaction  in  making  Christmas  gifts  to  the  other  half, 
and  the  other  half  has  so  little  that  it  knows  no  good- 
will for  covetousness,  and  no  peace  for  hunger?  "Peace 
on  earth,  good-will  to  men!"  Yes,  that  was  the  chant 
of  the  heavenly  host,  and  to-day  the  guns  are  booming 
and  the  world  is  red  with  blood  that  the  nations  may 
have  more  trade,  while  little  children  toil  in  mills  and 
factories,  and  pregnant  mothers  bow  with  work  and 
hunger.  What  more  than  those  simple  shepherds  have 
we  done?  They  went  and  worshipped.  We  fill  a 
basket  with  the  leavings  from  our  ample  board,  and 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     301 

make  a  visit  to  the  "deserving  poor,"  feeling  as  good  as 
Scrooge,  and  expecting  that  some  Tiny  Tim  will  cry, 
"God  bless  us  every  one." 

But  perhaps  we  are  pressing  the  essayist's  privilege 
of  discursiveness  too  far  in  thus  departing  from  our 
theme  of  Christmas  and  the  winter  world.  Yet  it  is 
often  such  thoughts  as  these  which  come  to  me,  far 
though  I  am  from  cities  and  the  problems  of  cities, 
from  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  wandering  over  snowy 
fields  where  only  the  varying  hare  has  been  ahead. 
Sometimes  the  problems  of  life  are  never  so  clearly 
seen  as  in  solitude,  and  certainly  the  strength  to 
meet  them  is  never  so  well  engendered  as  in  silence  and 
meditation.  I  like  best  to  think  of  Christmas  with 
all  its  old-fashioned  flavouring  of  roast  goose  and  plum 
pudding  and  Santa  Claus  and  tinselled  trees  and  rap- 
turous kiddies  and  jingling  sleigh-bells.  I  like  to  see  the 
light  and  jollity  within,  the  clear,  cold,  white  world 
without,  sparkling  under  the  frosty  stars.  I  like  to 
glow  with  greeting  for  my  neighbours,  and  feel  well- 
disposed  toward  all  the  universe.  I  love  to  put  the 
candles  behind  the  wreaths  in  the  windows  and  wait 
for  our  village  choir  to  arrive  outside,  and  then  to  hear 
their  voices  raised  in  the  still  night  air,  singing, 

Good  King  Wenceslaus  looked  out 

On  the  feast  of  Stephen — 
and 

We  three  kings  of  Orient  are, 
Bearing  gifts,  we  travel  afar — 


302    GREEN  TRAILS  AND  UPLAND  PASTURES 

and  other  lovely,  plaintive  old  carols  of  the  season, 
coming  uncorrupted  from  Shakespeare's  England. 

Yet  it  isn't  in  any  of  these  things  that  the  deepest 
suggestion  of  Christmas  lies.  It  is  rather  when  I 
come  from  the  woods  on  Christmas  afternoon,  across 
the  snowy  fields  that  are  already  stiffening  up  as  the 
low  sun  sets  till  they  creak  under  my  snow-shoes,  and 
draw  near  my  own  home  when  twilight  is  stealing  down 
the  eastern  hills  and  hanging  like  a  veil  in  my  evergreens. 
Then  I  see,  in  the  dark  block  of  the  house,  two  reddish 
gold  squares  of  light,  light  that  dances  on  the  panes  be- 
cause the  logs  are  snapping,  the  flames  are  wallowing 
up  the  chimney.  I  smell  the  smoke  of  them,  a  delicate 
fragrance  on  the  cold  winter  air.  Those  golden  win- 
dow squares  mean  home,  they  mean  not  affluence,  I 
am  sure,  nor  yet  poverty,  but  they  are  the  result  of 
wholesome  struggle,  which,  I  pray  God,  has  harmed  no 
other  man.  I  should  be  less  than  human  if  I  were 
not  proud  of  them,  if  they  did  not  make  me  warm  with 
happiness,  more  tender  toward  the  dear  ones  behind 
their  shelter.  But  should  I  not  be  less  than  human, 
too,  certainly  less  than  Christian,  if  I  did  not  confess 
that  the  true  spirit  of  Christmas  is  the  spirit  which 
admits  that  some  such  a  home  is  the  right  of  every 
man  who  is  born  of  woman,  and  which  ardently  de- 
sires each  man  to  come  into  his  birthright?  I  cannot 
see  Christmas  in  any  other  way.  I  cannot  approach 
my  house  behind  its  evergreens,  coming  out  of  the 


CHRISTMAS  AND  THE  WINTER  WORLD     303 

winter  world  into  the  fragrance  of  its  open  fires  and  the 
glow  of  its  window  squares,  without  a  pang  of  passionate 
happiness,  and  in  the  shadow  a  stab  of  remorse.  The 
winter  world  is  so  exquisite,  so  white,  so  purged  and 
still  and  beautiful!  A  happy  home  is  so  wonderful  a 
thing!  And  yet  the  Babe  who  was  born  in  Bethlehem 
has  sorrow  in  His  eyes. 

"Justice,"  He  seems  to  say,  "and  a  little  of  the 
white  world  for  us  all!" 


THE   END 


•THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


..!£?,9.U.!.HSN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FA 


A     000052019 


